Philosopher's Stone – Stories Untold
by Joe Hook
Summary: Essentially the Harry Potter series told from various third-person PoVs. Book One. Chapter-by-chapter. One-shots. Canon af.
1. The Boy Who Lived – Molly

_A/N: Whaddup Potterheads? This is my first fanfiction in a while – I'm not really sure where I'm heading with this, or how long I'll keep it going for but I hope you enjoy nonetheless._ _Disclaimer: All plots and characters belong to JK Rowling. Dialogue in **bold** is taken straight from the books. Happy reading!_

* * *

 **THE BOY WHO LIVED**

 **MOLLY**

The Burrow resembled a haunted tower under the full moon, but that didn't bother its inhabitants one bit. As far as Molly Weasley was concerned, the ghostly orb could hang there all night, every night, so long as it didn't become the smoky, serpent-tongued skull when her back was turned. Tonight may be Halloween, but any horrors that swept their house would be very, very real.

Molly knew this as well as anyone. Her brothers, Fabian and Gideon, had been brutally murdered by five Death Eaters mere weeks ago. That evening, racked with grief, she had waited for her husband and the Ministry investigators to return. Her brothers had died heroes' deaths, the investigators had told her, but the Death Eaters had performed such unspeakably Dark magic upon the bodies that they were unable to be recovered. All that remained was a beautiful gold watch, in which stars still moved around the face.

Molly had taken Fabian's watch in shaking hands, and the familiar dent in the back of it felt like her brother's last farewell. She laid it on the kitchen window-sill and placed a simple Impervius Charm upon it, so that dust would never settle upon its face.

The watch remained as spotless as ever to this Halloween, the day the Weasleys' lives, and the lives of every wizard and witch across the world, would change forever.

In the master bedroom, Molly lowered her tiny, sleeping daughter into a cot, and kissed her on the forehead. She tapped the cot with her wand and it began rocking gently back and forth. After a few minutes of listening to Ginny's soft breathing, Molly heard someone knocking at the front door.

She froze, prickly fear spreading through her. Arthur shouldn't be back from the Ministry for another hour, and they rarely had visitors. A month ago, she would have disregarded the possibility of it being Death Eaters knocking respectfully on her door, but she had learned that nowadays not everyone acted as expected, that no one – except, of course, her husband – could be trusted.

Molly crept into the kitchen and checked the grandfather clock. To her great relief, she saw that Arthur's hand had swung from 'work' to 'home'.

'Arthur?'

'Yes, dear,' came the weary voice from outside.

They exchanged their prearranged security questions and Arthur stepped through. The howling winds were dispelled when the door snapped behind him. He looked exhausted and somewhat dazed.

'You're home early –' began Molly, but the rest of her sentence became muffled as Arthur brought her into a hug.

'He's gone, Molly,' croaked Arthur, breaking apart. 'He's gone, it's over. It's finally over.'

It took Molly a few seconds to cotton on, then she covered her mouth with a hand.

'You-Know-Who?' she breathed. 'He's – he's _gone_?'

Arthur nodded and smiled weakly. He slipped off his travelling cloak absently-mindedly and collapsed on a chair at the kitchen table, where he removed his glasses and wiped his eyes.

'What happened?' Molly whispered.

'Hard to be sure … only rumours … From what they're saying at the Ministry, he was at Godric's Hollow and …' Arthur sighed heavily. 'He murdered them, Molly. Lily and James Potter.'

Molly gasped.

'Lily and …? Oh, Arthur, that's _awful_. They were so young, so happy … they got married only last year, didn't they? Goodness … and their son –'

'Is still alive,' said Arthur, pouring himself a sizeable glass of Firewhisky. 'I think Dumbledore's sent Hagrid to collect him from the wreckage. It was the son who stopped him, Molly. No one knows what really happened, but word is that You-Know-Who tried to kill him too, and couldn't. The boy broke him.'

He took a healthy swig of Firewhisky and continued, 'Of course, I'll only believe it when Dumbledore says it's true. But he's gone, Molly. He's definitely gone.'

Molly was lost for words. She was filled with a whole spectrum of emotion, but her overriding feeling was that of sheer, unadulterated relief. For years they had been living in the shadows of fear and lies and paranoia – now it was as though they had awoken from a long, tortuous nightmare. As Arthur said, it was finally over.

Molly was brought back to the present by soft footfalls on the stairs; the feet, then pyjamas and groggy face of their eldest son appeared.

'William, dear,' Molly said softly, rushing to hug him. The image of Lily and James's tiny son trapped in a ruin of a house burst vividly into her mind at that particular moment. Heaven forbid if that ever happened to one of her children. 'What are you doing down here?'

'I can't sleep,' said Bill, looking slightly bewildered at his mother's tight embrace. 'Dad, can I have a bedtime story?'

Unlike Bill, Arthur could barely keep his eyes open. Blinking awake, he replaced his glasses and smiled, 'Course you can, Bill.'

While Molly cleared the table and extinguished the lamps with her wand, Arthur followed Bill up the many stairs, where the heavy breathing of Bill's brothers could be heard, and into Bill's room. Moonlight streamed in through the gap in the broomstick-patterned curtains, illuminating the small safe on the bedside table, guarded by a snoozing model goblin, in which Bill kept his pocket money.

Arthur twitched the curtains shut and sat on the side of the bed, where he gently stroked Bill's red hair.

'I've got a new bedtime story for you tonight,' he said. 'I think you'll like it.'

Closing his eyes, Bill said sleepily, 'Does it have a happy ending?'

'Yes,' smiled Arthur. 'Yes it does … See, there was once a wizard. A _very_ bad wizard. The worst there ever was …'


	2. Sirius

**SIRIUS**

The deafening roar of the motorbike coursed through every particle in Sirius's body as he soared through the night sky. Never did he feel more alive than when the wind was whipping his long hair from his face, warm adrenaline in his bloodstream, the rest of the world passing beneath him in a mass of nightlights. The only thing that could make this ride more enjoyable was the presence of James on the back seat – but their joyrides and other midnight adventures had become fewer and fewer in the last year, ever since Dumbledore had, without much explanation, ordered James and Lily to go into hiding with their son.

However, tonight was no joyride. Sirius's destination was the hiding place of his other, fainter-hearted sidekick, Peter. In a surreptitious move, Sirius had convinced Peter to assume the role of the Potters' Secret Keeper as a bluff, since Sirius knew himself to be the more likely target of the Death Eaters. In consequence of this decision, Sirius had fully assured Peter that he would visit frequently to check his safety. Only Sirius, Peter, James and Lily knew about the switch, leaving both Remus and even Dumbledore out of the loop. He was not at all proud to admit it, but Sirius had his misgivings where Remus was concerned. It was no secret that nearly all the werewolves had now joined Voldemort's cause, and Sirius could only presume it was a matter of time before Remus became a spy for the Dark side, whether Remus wanted to or not.

Finally, Sirius nosed the bike into a long descent, until he touched down in the middle of a dry clearing on the edge of a forest. He killed the rumbling engine, collected the haversack he had brought along on the back seat, and, after a quick scan of the area, headed for the solitary shack half-concealed by the treeline.

He felt the subtle disturbances in the air as he passed through the many protective enchantments he and Peter had smothered the shack in less than a week ago. It had also been bewitched to make it look likely to crumble at any minute, to ward off curious Muggles, but the inside resembled a quaint country cottage.

Sirius glanced around again before knocking on the front door, then creaking it open.

'Only me, Wormy,' he said quietly upon entering the dark kitchen. 'Your babysitter's here, like we arranged …'

Once he clicked the door shut, Sirius paused.

'Out you come, Peter,' he said, louder this time. 'I was only joking about the babysitting. I've got food.'

He dropped the haversack on the kitchen table. The thud seemed twice as loud in the ongoing silence. Frowning, Sirius drew his wand from his jean pocket and, upon lighting it, found only the tidy kitchen and empty hallway.

' _Homenum Revelio,_ ' he muttered.

Nothing. Neither friend nor foe revealed their presence to him.

Sirius swore under his breath. _Where the hell was Peter?_ Had the Death Eaters broken through and taken him, in spite of all their efforts? There was no sign of a struggle, no evidence of misfired curses or stained blood. Peter must have left of his own accord, the fool. If that were the case, Sirius would find it hard to forgive him, even if there was an innocent reason for Peter's absence. Unless –

 _No,_ thought Sirius firmly. _You're overthinking it._ Peter may be a brainless, bumbling little squit at times, but Sirius would never have made him Secret Keeper if he didn't wholeheartedly trust him. Still, he should visit Godric's Hollow … just in case.

He doubled back and climbed back onto the motorbike. As he kicked the huge engine into life and took off, his usual adrenaline was spiked with something darker: fear.

The journey to Godric's Hollow was a short one; at least, it seemed that way to Sirius, who had been distracted by his imagination running amok. When he descended towards the churchyard and the home of his best friend loomed into view, Sirius was filled with a sickening dread and knew instantly that his very worst fears had been confirmed.

He landed heavier than usual. Mesmerised by the devastation ahead, he let the handlebars slip from his numb fingers (the bike remained standing, unsupported) and stuttered towards the last house on the street.

Godric's Hollow had exploded. Rubble and glass scattered as far as Sirius's feet and a layer of it carpeted the ceiling-less living room; the master bedroom above had disappeared completely.

Sirius clutched the gate in an attempt to stop his hands shaking, and saw movement amidst the rubble. A moment later, the unmistakable figure of Hagrid emerged from the ruin, his shaggy head bowed. He was carrying something small in his arms.

'Who's there?' said Hagrid sharply, peering through the dark. 'Sirius, is that you?'

Sirius tried to answer but his voicebox was dry as dust. Instead he waited until Hagrid had reached the gate and saw the wailing baby wrapped in cloths.

'Sirius, I'm so sorry,' croaked Hagrid. The parts of his face not covered in hair were glistening with tear tracks. 'They're gone … both of 'em …'

Sirius said nothing. It was all he could do to keep his own tears in. He stared intently at the wrecked cottage for a moment, as though hoping to reverse what had happened with his eyes, and felt Hagrid's great hand on his shoulder. Sirius dropped his gaze to the crying baby.

'He's alive,' Sirius muttered.

'Yeah,' said Hagrid. 'He stopped him, Sirius. Little Harry stopped You-Know-Who. He's gone. How about tha', eh?'

Again, Sirius was lost for words. He could not bring himself to muster an ounce of relief or joy. He pushed aside a strand of Harry's thin hair, as black as his father's, to reveal something that had never been there before: a lightning-shaped scar.

'I can take him from here,' said Sirius. 'Give him to me, Hagrid, I'm his godfather, I'll look after him –'

'Can', Sirius,' said Hagrid, shaking his head. 'I'm on strict orders from Dumbledore to take him to his aunt an' uncle's –'

'Hagrid, please, James would've wanted me to take care of him –'

'No,' said Hagrid firmly. 'I'm sorry, Sirius, I gave Dumbledore my word.'

The fight left Sirius. He felt dead, empty.

'Of course,' he muttered, then indicated his bike. 'Here, take this. Get Harry there safely.'

'Blimey, Sirius – Are you sure?'

'Yes. I won't be needing it any more. Not now …' _Not now James is gone_ , he finished in his head. He could already feel the tide of memories ready to wash over him. All those rides together … they had once escaped Muggle police on this bike, howling with laughter as they flew off …

Hagrid was giving Sirius an odd look as he swung a leg over the bike, and it occurred to Sirius in that moment that Hagrid still thought he was – or had been – James and Lily's Secret Keeper – but then Hagrid looked away to start the engine and Sirius was saved the necessity of having to explain himself. He turned away before Hagrid had the chance to bid him farewell.


	3. Rosmerta l Albus

**ROSMERTA / ALBUS**

It seemed as though the whole of Hogsmeade had congregated in the Three Broomsticks that night – no one could remember the pub ever being this crowded. The bar was filled with chinking glasses, pipe smoke, and the undercurrent of boisterous conversation that all portrayed one thing: pure relief.

Madam Rosmerta was pouring Butterbeer after Butterbeer while appeasing the attention of three bright-eyed wizards sitting at the bar, who were laughing loudly at her every comment. She had been so used to having people drink here to mourn rather than celebrate in recent weeks that she forgot she would normally be in bed at this hour – but when business was as good as this, she would stay up all night if necessary.

'I got the news almost immediately,' Rosmerta gabbled proudly, as she filled yet another tankard. 'I 'ad two blokes come in 'ere abou' midnigh', righ', and – That'll be two Sickles, love, fanks very much – anyway, one of them says, _'Oi, you won' believe this, You-Know-Oo's dead!'_ – told me 'e was pals with old Barnabus Cuffe, y'know, editor of the _Daily Prophet_. Anyway, it all went quiet, nobody could quite believe it. So 'e ends up buying drinks for everyone in the pub, and I made 'im sit down, righ' where you are now, and tell me everything wha' 'ad 'appened. You know 'ow much I like gossip, Roger.'

'That I do, darling, that I do,' the wizard named Roger chuckled, and the other wizards mimicked him.

'Course, when I heard abou' the Potters. God, how awful … but then people started coming in, singin' and laughin' and I knew then this would be a night to remember. So then – ah, Headmaster! What can I get you?'

The towering figure of Albus Dumbledore had just approached the bar. It had not been difficult, for the witches and wizards had parted graciously for his arrival, calling his name and shaking his hand.

'A small Firewhiskey would be most welcome, my dear Rosmerta, before I return to the school.'

'Busy day?' enquired Rosmerta as casually as she could, but Dumbledore detected the curiosity in her tone, and smiled. The noise level in the pub had noticeably dropped.

'Naturally, naturally …'

As Dumbledore took a mouthful of Firewhiskey, Rosmerta took her chance.

'Is it all true, Headmaster? Most people here didn't want to believe it was until you said so. Is He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named really gone?'

Dumbledore turned and smiled. The pub had fallen silent now.

'He is indeed,' he said, and a great cheer went up. 'I shan't stay long,' he continued a little louder, now addressing the crowd at large, 'nor do I wish to dampen your long-awaited celebrations – but please, let us take a moment to remember the witch and wizard who lost their lives tonight. A witch and wizard who had been waiting to celebrate this day for as long as you all here tonight. A witch and wizard who gave their lives to save their son. Please, raise your glasses for Lily and James Potter – and, of course, their son, Harry Potter: the Boy Who Lived.'

'The Boy Who Lived' echoed throughout the pub, followed by respectful applause as Dumbledore set his empty glass on the bar and found his way back out the pub.

He was stopped frequently along the village but eventually reached the gates flanked by winged boars. He muttered numerous counter-charms under his breath as he strode towards the great castle, finally undoing the protective spells that had kept Dark magic at bay for the last eleven years … his thoughts, however, remained loyal to all that had transpired in the past twenty-four hours. Black had betrayed the Potters, had outsmarted Dumbledore under his nose. Admittedly, that was not something he could possibly have envisioned.

Through the front doors and across the Entrance Hall, where the muffled sound of celebration issued from the Hufflepuff common room below … Dumbledore thought of the letter he had just delivered, which Petunia would be reading in a matter of hours … he had a feeling she wouldn't be entirely sympathetic, but unfortunately, she didn't have a say in the matter.

'Sherbet lemon,' he told the gargoyle guarding his office, who sprang out the way to reveal the revolving spiral staircase …

Then there was Harry himself. He could have no idea of the role he would play in the wizarding world. That could wait, thought Dumbledore. For now, Harry was better off not knowing anything.

Dumbledore opened the door to his office to find that it was not empty.

Snape leapt from the chair facing Dumbledore's and spun around, his dank hair swinging. His face was ghostly-white, fearful yet determined.

'Well?' he demanded.

Dumbledore did not answer immediately. Once he had hung his purple travelling cloak, he turned to Snape and sighed.

'You can't possibly have been expecting good news, Severus.'

'I – I just want to hear it from you –'

'I'm sorry, Severus,' said Dumbledore, though there was an absence of warmth in his tone. 'She's gone.'

Snape half-opened his mouth, then collapsed back on the chair and slumped on Dumbledore's desk, onto which he began to sob. Dumbledore looked down at the man, still so young, who had been lured into Tom's inner circle, only to come back to Dumbledore for the girl he had loved for his whole childhood, and experienced a surge of pity.

Once Snape had regained enough composure to speak, he raised his head slowly.

' **I thought … you were going … to keep her … safe …'**


	4. Petunia

**PETUNIA**

Privet Drive was awakening. As a weak sun rose, sending shimmers along the wet road, lights appeared in the identical houses along with the silhouettes of their residents. The rain from last night was glistening on the immaculate lawns and the cars sat dripping in their drives.

Then, quite suddenly, a short scream sounded from outside number four.

Petunia Dursley clapped a hand to her mouth but she had been unable to stop the sound escaping her. She had just gone to put the empty milk bottles outside the front door when her eyes had fallen upon the bundle of blankets covering all but the sleeping face of a baby, sitting on the step.

'What is it, dear?' came Vernon's voice from behind. He was throwing on his jacket in readiness for another day at Grunnings. The image of a cat sitting far too still on the corner of the road sprung to his mind. If his day at the office was anything like yesterday's …

When Petunia failed to respond to his question, he peered over her shoulder and yelped.

'What the _devil_?'

Now awake, the infant shifted in its blankets and a few tiny fingers poked out. Vernon instinctively pulled Petunia behind him and blocked the doorway as though expecting the baby to attack them.

'Someone's tipped a _baby_ on us!'

'Don't just stand there staring at it, bring it inside, Vernon!' said Petunia shrilly, even though she herself had been frozen since she opened the door. Her eyes automatically swept over the windows of the houses opposite. There was an unspoken rapport between the neighbours who prided themselves on their ordinary, everyday lives: what on earth would they think if they saw a stray baby dumped on one of their doorsteps?

Glancing this way and that, Vernon hastily scooped up the bundle and returned inside so Petunia could snap the door shut. They hurried to the living room, where Vernon set the baby on the sofa and Petunia drew the curtains again. When she turned to face Vernon, she pointed at the bundle with fresh alarm.

'There's a letter, Vernon!'

She had snatched the envelope in a moment. In loopy lettering read a single word: _Petunia._

With shaking fingers, she opened the envelope to find, not paper or card, but yellowish parchment, and read:

 _Dear Petunia,_

 _My name is Albus Dumbledore. You may remember corresponding with me shortly after your sister was accepted into my school of witchcraft and wizardry, Hogwarts, many years ago._

 _It is with the deepest regret that I must inform you of the tragic deaths of Lily and her husband James. They were murdered in their home last night by the Dark wizard who takes the name of Lord Voldemort. Their son Harry, Voldemort's primary target, survived the attempt to murder him too, a feat that no other wizard or witch has ever achieved._

 _Though Voldemort is now in a position of near-destruction and has lost all his powers, there will almost certainly come a time when he returns, and when that time comes, both Harry and yourselves will be in grave danger. However, you have absolutely nothing to fear if you follow my next instructions carefully._

 _Last night, I placed a spell on this house which will protect Harry from any future attempts Voldemort or his followers may take to harm him, or yourselves. As Harry's last remaining blood relative, you will seal this protective spell by taking Harry into your home. I must ask this crucial favour of you: to accept Harry, and raise him as your own, for the spell will only work as long as Harry can call this place home. Harry will grow to become a wizard – when he is eleven he will reside at Hogwarts for seven years, though he will still be obliged to return to your house every summer. In the highly unlikely, though not impossible, event that Harry is a Squib (that is, someone who has failed to inherit their parents' magical ability), I shall take other measures to ensure his safety, of which I will inform you in due course. Ultimately, on his seventeenth birthday, the spell will cease to operate and Harry will be free to leave for good._

 _This is an inconvenience, and you have my greatest sympathies._

 _Yours truly,_

 _Albus Dumbledore_

 _Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry_

Petunia could not think. Grief, fear and even anger were all crashing around inside her, wave after wave … Her sister, dead … murdered. They had not been in touch for years, but Vernon had mentioned her only last night …

 _Both Harry and yourselves will be in grave danger …_ She and Vernon, despite their very best efforts to lead normal lives, clear from that awful world of magic, were now targets of the most dangerous wizard in existence? And this 'Dumbledore' (she had long since repressed the memory of that jealousy-driven letter all those years ago) had dumped the Potters' boy on her doorstep and she was expected to raise him for seventeen years! What on earth had she done to deserve this?

'Unbelievable,' muttered Vernon, who had just finished reading the letter over Petunia's shoulder.

'We can't take him in,' said Petunia, feigning a lack of emotion. 'We promised, remember, that we'd have _nothing_ to do with – with her.'

Petunia's voice broke, betraying her heartache. Lily, dead … she had never had the chance to say goodbye, to even give her any sign that, deep down, she did love her. Lily was gone.

Vernon put a large arm around her bony shoulders. Petunia impatiently brushed away her tears.

'We can't take him in,' she repeated, more firmly this time.

'We'll find him an orphanage,' Vernon told her. 'He shouldn't be our problem. We'll figure something out.'

Petunia nodded, barely aware of what she was agreeing to. She had just noticed a postscript on the parchment, which she was certain had not been there a moment before.

 _P.S. I should add that my asking that you keep Harry is not a request. It is an order. Your house is under watch. Should you choose to abandon Harry, I shall know immediately and you shall regret it. Good day._


	5. Peter

**PETER**

As he scurried along the streets of Westminster, Peter Pettigrew turned up the collar of his coat, yet still he shivered. This state of jittery panic had gripped him ever since he had divulged James's location to his new master; when the news came that the Dark Lord had fallen, Peter had run.

Nothing could have prepared him for this. He had been expecting safety, inclusion, _rewards_ even … but nothing had gone to plan. That safety had been destroyed when the Dark Lord had been destroyed, and now he was vulnerable once more.

Of course, other than his fellow Death Eaters, only one person knew of his betrayal. But if Sirius were to tell the Order the truth, the might of the Ministry would be after him this very moment. Muggle London was the perfect place to hide: not just for its population but because it inhabited the largest network of rats in Britain. The merest squeak of danger would be enough to alert him and ensure his survival.

Peter slowed to a brisk walk and marched alongside the spiky black railing that enclosed the back of St James's Palace, checking over his shoulder every few seconds. He was naturally paranoid. He was a coward, and he knew it. Sirius and James had been kind enough to remind him of it for the last decade. The lines between friends and bullies had faded where they were concerned; if they had known the impact all those petty insults had really had on Peter, they surely would have thought twice about it. _Too late now_ , thought Peter savagely. _Look where James ended up_ …

'PETER!'

Lost in these poisonous thoughts, Peter jumped out of his skin. He knew that voice. It belonged to someone he once admired, though someone he now feared. It was the voice of an old friend and a new enemy.

Spinning round, Peter saw him almost immediately. The alley was fairly busy still; late-night shoppers were filing along, a scruffy black man was singing with a battered guitar, and a Royal guard stood poised by the back gate of the Palace. Then shoving his way through the crowd was Sirius, straggly-haired with murder in his eyes.

With his heart ramming against his ribs, Peter slipped his wand behind his back, and advanced. Coward, was he? He'd show Sirius …

'Lily and James, Sirius!' he wailed, so that the whole street looked their way. Peter was simulating sobs of grief now, and Sirius backed against the Palace railings in disgust. The guard remained motionless, though his eyes flickered their way. 'How c-could you? They were your f-friends …'

'Why, you lying, filthy piece of –' hissed Sirius, drawing his own wand in full sight of the Muggles. Many of them screamed, evidently thinking he had pulled a gun, and the Palace guard finally moved to step in –

BOOM

The force of the explosion threw Sirius to the ground, and rubble rained upon him. His ears were ringing as he slowly raised his head, and the screams of Muggles echoed distantly. He half-opened his eyes, blinking against the cloud of dust. His breath caught at the sight of the dead Queen's guard, whose features had been mutilated; blood as red as his coat covered the man's face, his black wig pointing askew.

Sirius staggered to his feet. His mind was slow, his thoughts jagged.

 _Where was Peter?_ He can't have gone far, and once he caught him, he could turn him in …

It was then he looked into the web-like crater in the middle of the road. The explosion had punctured the hissing sewer below, leaving a hole large enough for a rat to escape through. All that remained was a pile of bloody robes and a single, fat finger.

Sirius's head swam as he pieced together what Peter had done. He had sold James and Lily to Voldemort. He had framed Sirius for his betrayal. He had caused the death of numerous Muggles and faked his own in the process. He had escaped.

Sirius felt aside from himself, detached, as though he was experiencing this internal devastation from a distance. Peter had done all that. Sniffling, stupid, cowardly Peter had pulled off the perfect crime.

As he did his best to process this impossibility, the echoing noises of chaos sharpened, and his hearing clarified. It was only then Sirius noticed the noise escaping his own mouth.

He was laughing.

What happened next passed in a blur. Wizards appearing on all sides. Ropes binding his hands behind his back. His wand being snapped in two before his eyes. And all the while, Sirius laughed.

'… Sirius Black, by permission of Bartemius Crouch, Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, you are hereby arrested for the murder of Peter Pettigrew and twelve innocent Muggles …'

How could he have made such a catastrophic error? Why on earth did he think he could trust Peter?

'… also charged with being an accomplice in the murders of James and Lily Potter, and the attempted murder of their son Harry …'

If only he had made himself Secret Keeper … none of this would have happened …

' … For these unspeakable crimes, you will be detained in Azkaban, without trial, where you will serve a life sentence …'

James and Lily … Prongs ... dead …

'My fault,' he said, still chuckling, as he and the Ministry officials Apparated onto the cold blustery rocks outside Azkaban prison, where a thousand Dementors roamed the skies. 'All my fault.'

'That's the spirit. No one likes a liar,' jeered the Junior Minister of the Department of Magical Catastrophes from beneath a lime-green bowler hat. 'Find the safest cell you can, boys.'

Sirius chuckled weakly all the way to the highest cell in the very centre of the prison. The Dementors swooped, excited by the arrival of a new inmate. Sirius would not give them what they want. He would remember his innocence and use it as a Patronus. And in the depths of his broken mind, one thought found its mark and it filled him with a boiling hatred.

 _Kill Pettigrew._

Sirius began to cry.


	6. Frank and Alice

**FRANK AND ALICE**

Though they were far too humble to admit it, Frank and Alice Longbottom were two of the best Aurors the Ministry had ever employed. Their magical prowess, level-headedness and refusal to kill rather than capture earned them much respect from the Order and worried even the most fearless Death Eaters; their wand-to-wand combat was rivalled only by Alastor Moody.

Presently, Frank and Alice were creeping through the floors of a crumbling stone turret by wandlight. In the past twenty-four hours, the Ministry had acquired knowledge that this was one of several locations where remaining Death Eaters were taking refuge. Voldemort may have fallen, but his followers were still at large, and it was Frank and Alice's job to find them.

'They're not up here,' Frank whispered.

'Shall we try the basement?' suggested Alice, equally quiet.

Frank nodded and led the way down a flight of stairs, where the air was as cold as the stone. Frank stared fixedly ahead as they descended, while Alice, who had keener hearing, twitched her head this way and that. They often worked together in manoeuvres like these. Their understanding of each other's movements and senses was almost telepathic, which was immensely useful when it came to covert operations and getting out of tight situations. They had escaped Voldemort himself no less than three times as a result.

As Frank descended, he hoped that this would be one of the last operations he and his wife would need to make. He wished more than anything to be at home with his son, especially after what had happened to poor James and Lily Potter this week. Frank's uncle Algie was babysitting this week, as he and Frank's mother often did when Frank and Alice were on duty. Frank's greatest regret was being unable to spend enough time with Neville; with any luck, Voldemort's downfall would atone for that.

There was no point pretending: Frank had been scared to bring a child into this world, a world that could easily have fallen into the grasp of Voldemort. Every arrest Frank had made in the last year had been for his son, to make Neville's life as happy and painless as possible.

'What d'you reckon?' asked Alice. If she had been concentrating at that moment, she might have heard the muffled footfalls on the stairs.

'Seems empty, doesn't it?' muttered Frank. If he hadn't been looking at his wife, he might have spotted the movements behind her in time. 'We'll let Crouch know and –'

Too late. The moment Frank saw them was the same moment he and his wife's wands flew out their hands. They cluttered on the stone floor while the hooded figures advanced.

' _Incarcerous!'_

From nowhere, ropes bound tightly around Frank's legs and torso; Alice screamed. One of the Death Eaters caught Frank before he lost balance and threw him roughly onto a chair. More ropes coiled around him, squeezing the chair against him.

'HELP! _HELP!_ ' Frank bellowed, mingling with Alice's continuing screams.

'Silence!' hissed a woman's voice, and Frank choked, feeling as though an invisible pincer had squeezed his throat.

'Now,' breathed the woman, kneeling down so that she was level with Frank's gasping face. 'This won't take too long if you play by the rules. Tell me, Longbottom: _Where is the Dark Lord?_ '

Frank swallowed. Fear was betraying him; his mouth was dry and he had the shakes. It was four on two, and he and Alice had no means to defend themselves. He forced himself to look into the woman's eyes and recognised Bellatrix Lestrange, one of the most notorious names on the files Frank had studied at the Ministry.

'I don't know.'

' _Liar,'_ the woman spat. Her face was young and smooth, her hair long and dark. She was beautiful, yet she was unhinged. What a dangerous thing it was to believe that someone's face was anything more than a mask. 'Rodolphus, dear, if you please.'

One of the men, thin with small, flickering eyes, smirked and pointed his wand at Frank, who experienced a rush of dread.

' _Crucio!'_

Grimacing, teeth clenched, Frank let out a grunt but rode out the all-consuming pain. It really, _really_ hurt, of course it did, but he was an Auror. _It'll take more than that to break me_ , he thought.

'That was just a little taster,' said Bellatrix. She was starting to enjoy herself. 'Don't make us go any further. We have good reason to believe the Dark Lord targeted you after he killed off those pathetic Potters. We know you can tell us. We've got all night down here, and there's no one to hear you scream, so I'll ask again: _Where is the Dark Lord?'_

'I don't know,' said Frank, louder this time.

As Bellatrix sighed theatrically, her husband struck again.

' _Crucio!'_

This time, the pain was unlike any Frank had been put through before and his shouts echoed forever against the stone walls. His very brain was on fire.

'He's dead!' he bellowed. 'Voldemort's dead, you fools! You know he is!'

'How _dare_ you speak his name?' screeched Bellatrix, her eyes wide with rage, and struck Frank with a Cruciatus curse of her own. 'He is not dead! _Tell me where he is!_ '

The pain was too much for Frank's mind to even perceive. He sobbed and screamed until his breath ran out. His sanity had ruptured. He couldn't even muster the thought of dying, or even that dying was better than this utter, utter hell.

Once Frank had slumped in his chair, twitching, his eyes rolling, Bellatrix took a moment to compose herself before turning her attention to Alice.

'You're being very quiet, my dear,' said Bellatrix in a sickeningly sweet voice. 'Perhaps you know more than your husband.'

'No …' whispered Alice, who was openly sobbing.

Bellatrix ignored her.

'Now – _where is the Dark Lord?'_

'I don't know! Please, we don't know, _please_ – NO – AHHHH!'

Alice's screams pierced what was left of Frank's consciousness, and that noise was even worse than his own pain.

Frank did not know how long it went on for. The torture had reached a level so high that it transcended time: they might have been there for hours, and hours, and hours, and there was no end in sight.

Unbeknownst to any of them, another figure had appeared in the basement. In a flash the man had Disarmed Bellatrix, before firing a curse at Rodolphus, who flew backwards and crumpled against the stone wall. The flash of the spell temporarily illuminated the man's heavily-scarred face, beady eyes and mutilated nose.

Upon seeing the state of the victims in the chairs, fury like no other coursed through Alastor Moody. Frank and Alice, two of his closest friends, were lolling in their chairs, staring blindly. Worst of all, they had been kept alive.

With an animalistic roar, Moody unleased a sequence of curses that splintered the air and sent all four Death Eaters flying. Bellatrix crashed against the floor, stirring feebly. When the scrawniest of them, a young boy with straw-coloured hair, rose and scrambled towards him, Moody merely swung a punch his way, knocking him cold.

'ARRGHH!'

Moody felt a burning pain in his thigh and collapsed; Rabastan, the only Death Eater who had retained his wand, had sent a curse that struck Moody's leg, completely removing it. From the ground, Moody slashed at the air and a deep gash appeared on the brute's face. Before he could react, Moody had Summoned all four together and bound them back to back in ropes until he heard a rib crack.

Wheezing, Moody looked down at the stump where his leg had been. Blood was gushing onto the stone and he was overcome with a wave of light-headedness. He conjured a stream of bandages until the flow was stemmed, then fashioned a wooden claw from thin air, which attached itself seamlessly to the end of his thigh.

In the silence, Alice looked to her left, tear tracks shining on her kind face. Her eyes found those of the husband she barely recognised.

'F … Fr …' she muttered, frowning. She stretched out a hand, and touched his fingers. Even now, she wasn't completely sure who he was. All she knew was that she loved him.


	7. The Vanishing Glass – Ron

**THE VANISHING GLASS**

 **RON**

Growing up as a witch or wizard differs from growing up as a Muggle in many ways: owls and newts tend to roam the house more than cats and dogs; bedtime stories involving trolls and giants are often based on true events; and, especially in the Weasley household, practical jokes are a lot more dangerous.

Three-year-old Ron was about to become aware of this for the first time. He had been playing with his toy Hippogriffs in the bedroom he shared with Fred and George, when the twins came charging through the door. They did this on an almost daily basis, yet it still made Ron jump every time.

'Don't _do_ that!' Ron shouted. The toy Hippogriffs flapped their wings and snapped their beaks at the twins.

Fred and George merely laughed.

' _Don't do that,'_ Fred mocked in a high-pitched baby voice, dropping in front of his younger brother.

'We just wanted to play with you,' grinned George, sitting next to his twin. 'This looks like _so_ much fun.'

'Shut up,' said Ron, his ears turning red. Much to his parents' disappointment, these had been the first words he'd spoken as a baby, having heard Bill say it to Fred and George at least ten times a day.

'How rude,' said Fred, standing up and moving towards the door. 'I think I'm going to tell Mum –'

'No!'

'OK, you owe us then,' said Fred, sitting back down. 'You have to let me and George turn your Hippogriffs into pink unicorns.'

'No – leave them alone!' Ron shouted when George snatched a Hippogriff from his grasp. 'WHY ARE YOU SO ANNOYING?'

'There's no need to cry about it, Ronnie –'

'I'M NOT CRYING!' shrieked Ron through angry tears. Fred now had his tongue between his teeth in concentration as he squinted hard at the Hippogriff in his hand. After a few seconds, there was a small pop and the toy had turned sparkling pink.

With a noise of anguish, Ron picked up the other two Hippogriffs and hurled them at each twin.

'Ouch!' said the twins in unison. Fred clapped both hands to his forehead. George picked up Ron's big teddy bear and threw it back in retaliation, knocking Ron backwards.

When Ron sat up again and made to grab the teddy's leg, however, his hand found not soft fabric but something thin and hairy.

Ron looked up, and his eyes and mouth opened wide in a silent scream. An enormous spider was towering over him, its legs crawling closer, its pincers snapping menacingly. Even Fred and George, who had only half-intended this, stopped laughing.

The bedroom door burst open again and in came Arthur.

'What on _earth_ is –?'

Arthur took one look at the spider and in a flash had Vanished it with his wand.

It took hours for Ron's hysterical sobs to subside. The spider may be gone for good, but the trauma attached to it would stay with Ron forever. Fred and George apologised again and again and claimed it was an accident, and managed to escape punishment.

They weren't quite so lucky when it came to one of their other practical jokes two years later.

Again, Ron was playing in the living room when Fred and George entered. This time, there was an air of tense excitement about the twins and Ron immediately saw why: George was carrying their mum's wand.

'What are you doing?' asked Ron warily.

'We managed to nick Mum's wand,' said Fred quietly. 'There's a spell we want to try out, but we need three people for it. D'you want to help?'

Ron hesitated. He was permanently suspicious of Fred and George whenever they came in here, but he was just as enthralled by them stealing his mum's wand as they were. Besides, he always liked seeing wand magic.

'OK.'

'Good. We read about this in a fairytale and we wanted to see if it really works,' explained Fred. 'Right, firstly you need to hold my hand – like that, yeah – now, George is just going to ask you a few questions and all you have to say is "I will". Got it?'

'OK,' said Ron again, his excitement mounting; it wasn't often Fred and George involved him in their secret plans.

George cleared his throat importantly.

'Ron, do you promise to go in goal whenever you play Quidditch with your brothers?'

'I will,' said Ron obediently. He gasped as a stream of fire wrapped around both hands, but it wasn't hot. Fred and George grinned, looking as excited as he was.

'And do you promise to sit down every time you go to pee?' asked George, his voice shaking from stifled laughter.

'Er –'

'Just say it, Ron!'

'I will.'

A second flame shot from the wand, intertwining with the first.

'And finally – do you, Ron, promise to serve your brothers Fred and George loyally for as long as you –?'

George broke off as Arthur wandered in, wiping his glasses on the hem of his shirt.

'Boys, have any of you seen Mum's –?'

Arthur dropped his gaze to the scene on the floor and the blood drained from his face.

'NO!' he bellowed. 'Fred, let go at ONCE! Merlin's beard, what are you playing at?'

Arthur snatched the wand from George's hand, still shouting at the top of his voice. The twins tried to back away, but that only incensed their father more.

'Get back here, NOW! Don't you _dare_ run away from me! What were you thinking, you could have had Ron killed!'

Ron stood up, scared and confused, as Arthur followed Fred into the kitchen. He heard a series of loud smacks, accompanied by Fred's yelps of pain and his father's relentless reprimanding. He had never seen his dad so angry.

In the following years, Fred and George continued to wind up and poke fun at their younger brother – however, they always made sure their father was at work when they played pranks and never, ever touched their parents' wands again.


	8. The Letters From No One – Hermione

**THE LETTERS FROM NO ONE**

 **HERMIONE**

The bell trilled to signal the end of not only the day, but of Hermione's final year at primary school. As a great cheer went up around the classroom and the pupils piled recklessly through the door, Hermione slung her heavy bag over her shoulder and picked up the other four books that didn't fit in her bag. She was the last to leave.

'Come on, Hermione,' smiled Mrs Honeysett, holding open the door. 'Aren't you ready for the summer holidays?'

'Yes, Mrs Honeysett – really, I am,' said Hermione fervently. She stared around the empty classroom for one last time. 'But I _am_ going to miss coming here again. Thank you for making this year so fun.'

'Oh, not at all, my dear, not at all,' said Mrs Honeysett, who was looking rather emotional. 'Thank _you_ for being such an excellent pupil. I predict a very bright future for you, Hermione. You're a special girl. Now, off you go and enjoy the rest of your summer.'

Hermione grinned her toothy grin and left through the door with a hasty wave. Peering over her stack of books, she headed down the main corridor and out into the glorious sunshine with mixed feelings. She would miss her lessons, and Mrs Honeysett; more than anything, she would miss her best friend Sophie, who, along with many of their classmates, would be starting at one of the local comprehensives in North London without her.

There were reasons to be happy, too, of course. Hermione had been accepted into the prestigious Henrietta Barnett Girls' Grammar School, something she was very proud of. This had, however, attracted plenty of jeers and jibes from the school bully, Becky, and her cronies Madge and Derek. Hermione knew why, of course: they were jealous. They couldn't outscore Hermione in a test even if they combined their scores. But their incessant teasing had reduced Hermione to tears a couple of times. Another reason she was glad to leave.

'OI! Granger!'

Hermione had almost reached the bus stop but the familiar voice from behind caused her to halt and turn. Her heart sank.

It looked as though Becky, Madge and Derek were here to torment her one last time.

'Oh, hello,' said Hermione coldly.

' _Oh, hello,'_ mocked Madge and Derek in overly-snobbish voices. Madge was squat with huge gold earrings and Derek was a scrawny ferret-faced boy with a buzz cut.

Becky, who was tall, dark-haired and considered to be the best-looking girl in the year, smirked.

'Whatchu in a hurry for, Posho? Didn'tchu wanna say goodbye to us? We might never see each other again.'

'That's fine by me,' said Hermione, and she spun around with her nose in the air. Next thing she knew, Becky had grabbed a handful of her bushy hair.

'Ouch!'

Becky turned Hermione around until they were face to face. Hermione stared up at the girl she disliked so much, willing her tears of pain to hold off.

'Don'tchu be rude to me,' Becky whispered dangerously. 'If you ain't gonna say goodbye to us, then we'll say goodbye to you. Now, seeing as you like lessons so much, we're gonna teach you one of our own.'

On cue, Derek reached forward and snatched the topmost book from Hermione's stack. Hermione made to grab it back, but Becky tightened her grip and Hermione fell back, shaking with rage.

After flicking through the volume and declaring it 'Borrrring' Derek dropped it in a puddle.

'That's a shame,' smiled Becky. 'Madge, what about the next one?'

'Let's see,' said Madge gleefully.

As Madge extended a fat hand, Hermione's anger peaked – and not for the first time in her life, something incredible happened.

The book came to life and snapped at Madge's hand, and her scream pierced the air. Once she had run away, it began attacking Derek, who cowered in panic and tried to bat the flying book away.

Then the other two books jumped from Hermione's arms and she watched in awe as they began smacking against Becky's head. The bully finally relinquished her grip on Hermione's hair and ran after her cronies, screaming 'FREAK!' over her shoulder.

The books fluttered gently back into Hermione's arms. She picked the last one out the puddle and was delighted to find it dry as ever.

Hermione's sense of wonder occupied her throughout the bus trip home. The incident at the bus stop had dredged up a series of similar events from the last few years: ripping her favourite skirt and finding it in one piece again the next day; being able to build improbably high sandcastles on a French holiday; making paper swans that came to life in the palm of her hand …

Hermione thanked the bus driver, disembarked and approached the Granger household: it was a tall building identical to those alongside it, with hanging baskets and sprawling ivy decorating the front door.

She could hear low voices emanating from the living room as she placed her books and bag on the hallway table and removed her shoes. Upon entering the living room, she found her parents in serious conversation with a strange woman. She was rather severe-looking, nothing like Mrs Honeysett, and she wore long emerald-green robes and square glasses; she was also holding a yellowish envelope.

'Ah, Miss Granger,' said the stranger, peering down at Hermione over her glasses. 'Pleased to meet you. My name is Professor McGonagall.'

'Oh – hello,' said Hermione timidly.

'I've just been having a discussion with your parents about you. Nothing to be worried about,' Professor McGonagall added, seeing the apprehension in Hermione's expression. 'But perhaps you should read this before I go any further.'

She handed Hermione the envelope. Hermione read her name and address in green ink and on the reverse was a purple seal. Curious, she withdrew the letter and read, her well-practised eyes flitting through the writing. Her parents moved over to read over her shoulder.

When she had finished, her heart felt twice as big in her chest. A witch! She could do _magic_! It made sense, she supposed, what with all those incidents she had recalled on the bus.

'That's wonderful!' she said delightedly. 'You're a witch too, Professor?'

'Indeed. And, should you and your parents oblige to accept your place at our school, I shall be one of your teachers. I understand if this is a bit of a shock for you,' McGonagall said, addressing Mr and Mrs Granger, who had barely spoken since McGonagall's bizarre appearance. 'It would mean making a lot of changes for your daughter. But she is special, and we would be delighted to take her in and hone her magical ability.'

'Oh, please, Mum, _please,_ Dad.'

Mr and Mrs Granger looked at each other. Learning that witches and wizards existed was one thing. Learning that their own daughter possessed such powers was almost unbelievable. However, Hermione's beaming face was more than enough to convince them.

'Of course you can, dear.'

Hermione hugged both her parents, thanking them again and again, then re-read the letter. She was off to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and that sounded much better than some girls' grammar school.


	9. Albus

**ALBUS**

 _Dear Albus,_

 _Many thanks for your letter, which I read, as always, with great interest. Your concerns surrounding the Stone I have taken very seriously. I agree that the vaults at Gringotts are not flawless: I have witnessed several reports of successful break-ins over my lifetime. If you believe the Stone to be in danger (and I wholeheartedly trust your judgement on this) then I am certainly willing to sanction its transfer to Hogwarts, where I can rest assured it shall be given the utmost protection by yourself and your wonderful colleagues._

 _I must say, in my many, many years of exploring ancient magic, never before have I heard of anything quite as intriguing or unique as this Mirror of Erised you speak of. I always seem to learn something new whenever you write to me – So much for the old teaching the young! I'd be fascinated to know how you intend to conceal the Stone within the Mirror. Perenelle and I had a long discussion last night, pondering what we would see if given the chance to look in the Mirror. Each other, we decided. Each other, and perhaps an eternal supply of Chocolate Frogs (my next alchemical project, perhaps?). Anyway, I digress._

 _I shall leave the removal of the Stone in your more than capable hands, and let us hope no one is foolish enough to test your defences. And remember, Albus, if ever you find yourself in the West Country, you are always welcome to –_

There was a knock on the office door and Dumbledore looked up. It was a glorious, quiet summer's morning. Shafts of warm sunlight streamed in through the windows, and the many professors on the walls were snoozing lazily in their frames.

'Come in,' answered Dumbledore, folding away Nicholas Flamel's letter. 'Ah, good morning, Professor.'

'Good morning,' replied Minerva McGonagall stiffly, snapping the door shut behind her.

'You seem troubled,' Dumbledore remarked, peering over his half-moon spectacles. 'All the letters delivered? No hitches?'

'Yes, as a matter of fact,' snapped McGonagall. 'One. I think you knew there would be, Albus.'

'Ah,' said Dumbledore, bowing his head. 'Harry.'

'Naturally. The boy is still yet to find out he's a wizard. The Muggles snatched the letter and destroyed it before he had the chance to read it.'

'Hm.'

'Did you happen to read the address on his letter?' asked McGonagall impatiently. It was clear she was frustrated that Dumbledore wasn't displaying as much outrage as she felt. She drew out a letter from her robe pocket and thrust it before the Headmaster.

'I did not,' murmured Dumbledore, taking it.

'"Mr H. Potter, The Cupboard Under the Stairs",' recited McGonagall, hands on hips, nostrils flaring. 'He's living in a _cupboard_ , Albus! I've told you before, these people are simply inhumane, he'd be better off raised by werewolves – Honestly, Albus, you keep saying how important this boy is, yet you allow him to be subjected to this awful excuse for an upbringing!'

'Minerva,' said Dumbledore sternly, and McGonagall fell silent at once, though she continued to breath heavily through her nose. 'I knew as well as you did on that Hallowe'en night that we were condemning Harry to a difficult childhood. Arabella has kept an eye on him and she has seen no reason to interfere, no matter how poorly you think Harry has been treated. The Dursleys' behaviour towards their nephew is borne of fear, not hatred. That fear will have intensified this morning when they realised all their efforts to quash the magic from Harry have been futile.'

'That's all very well,' said McGonagall with forced calm. 'But how do you plan on getting the boy to Hogwarts?'

'As to that, I think we'll have to send a few more letters,' said Dumbledore. With that, he set Harry's Hogwarts letter on the desk, tapped it with his wand and muttered, _'Gemino.'_

Next moment, no less than a hundred identical Hogwarts letters stacked neatly between the two professors.

McGonagall stared.

'You can't be serious.'

'Oh, I can. On occasion,' said Dumbledore, smiling up at her. 'If the Dursleys wish to be a nuisance, then it is our prerogative to be nuisances back. I shall get Hagrid to make sure these reach their intended recipient. If you could fetch him for me, please, Minerva.'

'Very well.'

'Oh, Minerva, one more thing,' said Dumbledore, and McGonagall paused with her hand on the office door. 'Mr Flamel has wisely agreed to transfer his Stone from Gringotts to here –'

'His Stone – you mean the Philosopher's Stone?' asked McGonagall, her eyebrows shooting upwards.

'Correct. If I could ask yourself and the other Heads of House to devise layers of protection for the Stone, I would greatly appreciate it. Oh, and we ought to throw Hagrid and Professor Quirrell into the mix, too. I think the chambers leading from the third floor corridor will suffice. I shall task Hagrid with removing the Stone once he has first removed our Harry from the clutches of his aunt and uncle. Good day, Professor.'

'Good day.'

Once the door had closed behind McGonagall, Dumbledore read the end of Flamel's letter, smiled, and got to his feet. Upon passing one of his silver instruments, he was struck by an idea. Remembering what he had written to Nicholas regarding the Stone's safety, he gently prodded the instrument with his wand. He had not referred to Voldemort by name in the letter, but a man of Nicholas's intelligence would almost certainly have read between the lines.

'Do you really believe Hagrid to be the wisest option for procuring the Stone, Headmaster?' asked Phineas Nigellus's portrait.

'What do you mean, Phineas?' murmured Dumbledore. His concentration was channeled towards the instrument, which began issuing a trail of smoke.

'Well – Should something as secretive and important as this rest on the responsibility of a giant? Why not enter Gringotts yourself?'

'A Headmaster is supposed to delegate,' answered another portrait, that of Brutus Scrimgeour, without opening his eyes. He was a plump man with a handlebar moustache and spent most of his days snoozing. 'I entrusted countless assignments to my staff during my years in this office.'

'Yes, well, only because you were too lazy to do them yourself,' spat Phineas.

'Thank you, Phineas,' said Dumbledore firmly, eyes still fixed on the instrument. The smoke had taken the form of a human head. 'Hagrid is not a giant, he is a half-giant – and I trust him with my life.'

Ignoring Phineas's snort of derision, Dumbledore peered closer at the instrument to find that the head actually comprised of two faces, back to back. He frowned slightly, unable to infer much meaning from this.

For a second time, the door burst open and in walked the enormous, wild figure of Hagrid.

'Ah, Hagrid,' smiled Dumbledore, and the smoke vanished instantly. 'Thank you for coming.'

'Of course, Professor Dumbledore, sir. Can I help you?'

'You can,' said Dumbledore, returning to his desk. 'There was a little hiccough today with regard to Harry's acceptance letter –'

'Harry – Harry Potter, you mean, sir?'

'Indeed. Unfortunately, his letter went astray, so I was rather hoping you would be able to try again.'

'Of course, Professor,' said Hagrid eagerly. His beetle-black eyes fell on the desk. 'Tha's a lot o' letters, sir.'

'Quite. It is rather important that Harry receives one, you see. This does mean you have my permission to use, er, _any means necessary_ ,' said Dumbledore, his eyes twinkling.

Hagrid's eyes widened in sudden excitement.

'You mean … I can use magic?'

Dumbledore inclined his head.

'I'll take the job, Professor,' said Hagrid, and immediately began shovelling the letters into the many enormous pockets of his moleskin coat.

Dumbledore chuckled.

'Now, if Harry has still not read his letter by the deadline, you will have no choice but to deliver it in person. If it comes to this, and I am inclined to think it might, I should like you afterwards to take Harry into Diagon Alley and help him purchase his school supplies. Let us give him an eleventh birthday to remember, shall we?'

'Absolutely, Professor!' said Hagrid delightedly. 'I'll bake him a cake!'

'Excellent idea,' smiled Dumbledore, before taking a letter from his desk drawer. 'Then, while you are in Diagon Alley, I'd like you to complete another task for me. I shall need you to take this to a Gringotts goblin and proceed to enter vault seven hundred and thirteen. Inside you will find a small package containing Nicolas Flamel's Philosopher's Stone. I would like you to take it out and bring it directly to me as soon as you've dealt with Harry. Not a word to anyone, Hagrid, that is imperative. We have decided to place it under Hogwarts's protection from now on.'

'Thank you, Professor,' said Hagrid thickly, taking the letter and wiping tears of gratitude from his eyes. 'I won't let you down.'

'I know you won't,' smiled Dumbledore.


	10. Rubeus

**RUBEUS**

Midnight had fallen over Privet Drive, so none of its residents heard or saw the enormous man trundling along on his motorbike down the middle of their road. Once it reached the corner, it turned into Magnolia Crescent, then along the alleyway that opened on to Wisteria Walk.

Hagrid cut the rumbling engine, lifted his goggles and climbed off. There was only one house with lights on, and it was behind this house which Hagrid stashed the bike.

Mrs Figg opened the front door before Hagrid had even knocked.

'You're late,' she grunted by way of greeting. She was wearing a nightcap and gown, and was holding open the door with one of her crutches. 'You wizards don't set much store by punctuality, do you.'

'Sorry abou' tha',' said Hagrid. 'Mind if I come in?'

'Yes, I suppose you'd better.'

'Dumbledore told yeh I was coming?' asked Hagrid, closing the door behind him while stooping to avoid hitting his head against the ceiling. The overwhelming smell of cats filled the dingy hall and Hagrid sneezed in a series of trumpeting sounds.

'Bless you,' said Mrs Figg. 'Yes, he sent an owl earlier today, telling me you'd be in the area for a few days and needed a place to stay. He didn't explain why, mind. Something to do with Harry, I assume?'

'Yeah, he didn' get his Hogwarts l-letter – a-CHOO!'

'Bless you. Yes, well, I know how that feels,' said Mrs Figg grumpily, and limped along the hall. 'Come into the living room, Hagrid, I'll get you a tea.'

Hagrid obliged, but took one look inside and saw all the cats milling about, flicking their tails and licking their paws. He sneezed again and backed out.

'Actually, Arabella, I reckon I'll take a kip now if yeh don' mind,' he said hastily. 'I gotta be up early, see.'

'Suit yourself,' Mrs Figg answered from the kitchen. 'The second bedroom's free. Upstairs, first on the left.'

At six o'clock that morning, Hagrid woke up, hit the alarm clock too hard and shattered it, then set off back down Wisteria Walk, holding aloft his tattered, pink umbrella. Dumbledore had bewitched it so that whoever was standing under it would be rendered invisible. When Hagrid turned into Privet Drive and reached number four, he withdrew one of the hundred letters from his coat pocket. He didn't notice that the emerald-green ink had rearranged itself, so that 'The Cupboard Under the Stairs' now read 'The Smallest Bedroom.'

Hagrid glanced along the street. Many of the curtains were twitching apart and one man was already watering the plants in his front garden.

Invisible to every eye, Hagrid slipped the letter through the letter-box, and waited on the brick wall.

Still, Harry did not read it. Frowning, Hagrid waited until the following morning to try again. However, the letter-box had been boarded up; so instead, with his tongue sticking through his teeth in effort, Hagrid slipped several through the gaps around the door and tossed a couple into the downstairs loo for good measure.

Still, Harry did not read it.

On Saturday, Hagrid took more extreme measures. He waited until the milkman had been and gone, then set about breaking open each egg, Vanishing the yolks with his umbrella, before replacing them with twenty-four rolled-up letters.

Still, Harry did not read it.

On Sunday, Hagrid began to lose his patience. He extracted a large handful of letters that morning and Levitated them over the Dursleys' roof. One by one, they shot down the chimney.

Hagrid chuckled to himself when he heard the uproar from the kitchen. Surely, _surely_ , that would do it.

But he was wrong. Still, Harry had not read his letter. On top of that, the Dursleys were now throwing bags into the boot of their flashy car, before shooting off, taking the skinny, black-haired figure of Harry with them.

'Bleedin' Muggles,' muttered Hagrid, shaking his head in disbelief. He had no choice but to hurry back to Mrs Figg's house and climb astride the motorbike. He'd follow them all day and all night if he had to: letting Dumbledore down was simply not an option.

Fortunately, the sky was filled with fluffy clouds, so Hagrid was able to fly low enough to keep the Dursleys' tiny-looking car in view. They drove aimlessly, it seemed, cruising along both motorways and winding country roads, performing random U-turns, but Hagrid never lost sight of them.

Finally, when the sun had set, they stopped at a run-down hotel in the Midlands and Hagrid descended with relief. He spent the night in a sheltered spot round the back of the hotel, where he threw down blankets and fed the owl he had been keeping in his coat pocket.

The following morning, Hagrid sent all but one of the remaining letters to the hotel reception, knowing he'd have to deliver it personally tomorrow if his efforts failed again today.

And fail they did. Hagrid watched with disappointment as the car sped off once more. Stoically, Hagrid climbed back on the bike and followed; he had twenty-four hours to ensure Harry got his letter. With every hour it took to follow the car across all sorts of terrain, his time was running out.

The winds picked up. Fat raindrops flew into Hagrid as he crossed the darkening skies. More than once, he lost track of the Dursleys and had to risk flying lower to keep them in view. When he next spotted the car, it was parked by the coast. He landed right next to it. There was no sign of the Dursleys, or Harry.

Hagrid panicked. He had to find them. He had to deliver this letter, or else Harry would not go to Hogwarts. Lily and James Potter's son, growing to become a Muggle! What a disaster that would be.

Hagrid extracted the final letter from his pocket. To his relief, the address had changed once more. He read it, then squinted out at the ocean, where he saw, right in the distance, a dark shack standing atop a rock.

'Mus' be jokin',' he muttered. With five minutes and counting, he re-started the engine and set off once more, soaring over the violently-lapping waves. The journey took four minutes.

Hagrid touched down on the crumbling rock and strode against the torrent of weather. It was a wonder that the hut was still standing, let alone staying dry inside.

His boots crunched on the rocks. The waves smashed against the perimeter, spraying Hagrid with seawater. With only seconds to go until the thirty-first of July, Hagrid approached the flimsy-looking wooden door, and knocked.


	11. Diagon Alley – Quirinius

_A/N: So I skipped the Keeper of Keys chapter, since there was no other PoV really available. By the way, if you think of any ideas for future chapters, feel free to let me know because I might miss stuff out! Enjoy_

* * *

 **DIAGON ALLEY**

 **QUIRINIUS**

The Leaky Cauldron was always busy during summer. With another Hogwarts year pending, students and their parents came bursting through the pub entrance all day.

There was, however, one man who had remained inside the pub while the witches and wizards rushed past. Quirinius Quirrell had been waiting, albeit nervously, for the hubbub to die down, before he entered Diagon Alley himself. He had been putting off the moment when he would leave for most of the afternoon, and had sensed Voldemort's impatience grow with every hour, particularly after Harry Potter had passed through. Quirrell suspected the boy's appearance had roused an even greater urgency in Voldemort to get to the Stone.

 _Get up, you fool_ , came Voldemort's voice now. _We've wasted enough time._

Quirrell choked on his drink, drawing looks of concern from those seated along the bar. The sky outside was darkening and the oil lamps hanging by the pub tables had been lit.

 _Yes, Master_ , he thought, and got to his feet.

'Thank you, T-Tom,' he stammered to the barman. 'I ought to b-be off. That book on v-vampires isn't going to b-buy its-self.'

'Right you are, Professor,' said Tom, taking Quirrell's empty glass with concern etched on his own face. 'You sure you'll be alright on your own?'

'Yes, th-thank you. Good day.'

'Good day, Professor.'

Quirrell ducked out the back entrance and into the square yard filled with bins. The spirit of Lord Voldemort was drifting alongside him – or within him. It was very difficult to tell sometimes. There were even times when Quirrell wondered whether he was just imagining something was there at all.

 _Oh, I'm certainly here,_ came Voldemort's sneering voice. _And if you fail in this task, you will be punished in a way that will ensure you never forget I'm here again._

'That's unfair, Master,' Quirrell hissed as he passed through the brick archway into Diagon Alley. The cobbled street was still fairly busy; they passed Ollivander's, inside which a pale, blond boy was trying wands, and a pair of twin girls having robes fitted in Madam Malkin's. 'I have served you well these last few months. I took you out of exile. To punish me in the failure of a near-impossible task, a task which requires powers far beyond my own, would be –'

 _Beyond yours, perhaps, but not mine. Would I have asked you to complete this task if I did not think it were possible? No. I have faith in you, Quirrell. Together, we shall succeed._

At these words, Quirrell was filled with a sense of security – confidence, even.

The marble tower of Gringotts stood out easily. The security goblins bowed him through and, ignoring the threatening message engraved on the second set of doors, Quirrell entered the main hall.

More goblins lined the two long counters facing each other. Quirrell approached the weakest-looking one and with a shaking hand withdrew a small key from his robe pocket.

'Good afternoon, Professor,' croaked the old goblin. 'How may I help?'

'I only wish to m-make a monetary withdrawal, if you p-please. I'm starting a new p-post at the school this year, you see … Defence Against the D-Dark Arts is much more expensive to t-teach than Muggle St-Studies.'

'Of course,' replied the goblin, climbing down from his stool. 'Follow me, Professor, I'll lead you to your vault.'

Quirrell's heart rate doubled as they passed through the next set of doors. He had to act soon. Down the stone passageway, lit with torches … Then, as soon as the goblin had summoned the cart –

 _Now!_ hissed Voldemort, his voice colder than the underground air.

Quirrell raised his wand and pointed it at the goblin.

' _Imperio.'_

The goblin climbed into the cart obediently. Quirrell followed, feeling the sense of control and power shared between himself and Voldemort's disembodied presence.

The cart shot off. They hurtled downwards, the most direct route to the high-security vaults. Voldemort's reassuring voice carried over the rattling of the wheels and the whistling of the wind.

 _You are doing well, Quirrell, but you must prepare for danger. As soon as you have the Stone, waste not a second._

'Yes, Master,' muttered Quirrell. There was no turning back now.

Finally, the cart screeched to a halt in the very depths of the labyrinth. The goblin got out immediately, but Quirrell hesitated. The lack of security outside vault seven hundred and thirteen was disconcerting.

 _What are you waiting for?_ said Voldemort's gleeful voice; it was clear even he had not expected such a straightforward heist.

Quirrell snapped into life. Stepping into the cold, stale air, he ordered the goblin to run his finger over the door. It had barely melted away before Quirrell leapt inside, his hand already outstretched – but the vault was empty.

His numb shock was soon punctured by Voldemort's explosion of fury.

'M-Master, it's gone!' said Quirrell in disbelief, and his stammer was genuine.

 _Go!_ Screamed Voldemort.

Quirrell didn't need telling twice. He practically threw the goblin back in the cart and they sped up and away. It was only then he realised they'd left the vault open.

 _Forget the vault,_ hissed Voldemort. _Save your own skin, so I can punish you properly_.

'Master, please,' gasped Quirrell, blinking away tears of anguish. 'How can this possibly be my fault?'

 _That vault was emptied today, you fool! If you had acted sooner, instead of wasting away the hours like a coward, that Stone would be mine!_

Once the cart reached the stone passageway, it took all of Quirrell's willpower to compose himself. He lifted the Imperius curse and modified the goblin's memory to fabricate a trip to Quirrell's own vault. Very little acting was required to return to his twitchy, nervy persona.

'Have a good day, Professor,' said the goblin somewhat dreamily, returning to his stool at the counter.

Quirrell left as quickly as he could. Voldemort's anger was about to peak, he knew it. He wanted to run, and never stop.

 _You can't outrun me, Quirrell. You know you must be punished for this._

Quirrell bolted down Knockturn Alley, his tears flowing freely now.

Then pain like no other engulfed his whole head, and he collapsed against an empty shop window, forcing himself not to cry out. Voldemort was closer than ever, his scream mingling with Quirrell's – Quirrell clutched his head, willing more than anything for the torture to stop. The skin above his neck was stretching and reshaping itself and Voldemort was no longer separate from him.

At long last, the pain began to subside. Gasping and sobbing, Quirrell straightened up, still leaning against the shop. By the reflection of both windows on either side of the alley, he could see the back of his head. He nearly fainted.

'Now,' said Lord Voldemort in a high, clear voice. 'Do not fail me again.'


	12. Severus

**SEVERUS**

Flanked by the other Heads of House, Snape led the way into the Headmaster's office. McGonagall was clutching a copy of the _Evening Prophet._

Snape knocked and entered without waiting for a reply.

'Ah, good evening – all of you,' smiled Dumbledore, who was feeding Fawkes. 'How are the obstacles coming along?'

'All in place. And just as well,' said McGonagall, laying the _Prophet_ on Dumbledore's desk. Even a few of the portraits around the walls gave gasps of shock. The front-page headline announced, in big black letters: _GRINGOTTS STUNNED BY MYSTERIOUS BREAK-IN_

Dumbledore returned to his desk and skimmed over the article.

'Goodness …' he murmured.

'We've had a close shave,' said Sprout briskly.

'Credit to Hagrid, of course, for not dawdling,' piped up Flitwick. 'Another couple of hours and he'd've missed it.'

'Hmm,' said Dumbledore thoughtfully.

'Is this merely a coincidence?' asked Snape.

'I don't see why not. Although we have been very, very lucky –'

He was cut short as the office doors burst open again.

'Ah, Quirinius, good evening – Goodness me, that's some headwear,' commented Dumbledore, having performed a double-take.

Panting, Quirrell straightened his large purple turban and said, 'Yes, this was gifted to m-me by an African p-p-prince. He had a spot of b-bother with a zombie and wanted to reward m-my assistance.'

'Smells strongly,' frowned Sprout, but Quirrell seemed not to hear.

'I don't suppose you've heard the news, Quirinius?' asked Dumbledore.

'N-No – what's happened, P-Professor?'

McGonagall passed the _Prophet_ to him. As he read, Quirrell's eyes widened.

'Vault seven hundred and th-thirteen?' he said in a hushed voice. 'But who – how?'

'You were in Diagon Alley this afternoon, were you not? Did you spot anyone acting strangely? Keeping a low profile, perhaps?'

'N-No, not that I recall. It m-must have happened after I left. The Stone is safe, though?'

'It is,' confirmed Dumbledore. 'At least, it will be. You say the protection is in place?' he asked McGonagall.

'Almost. We're just waiting on Hagrid.'

'And myself,' added Dumbledore. 'I know Hagrid is ready to install his, er, obstacle.' He frowned. 'You seem concerned, Minerva.'

'Well,' said McGonagall awkwardly. 'Do you not think these obstacles are – well – a little ...'

'Easy?' suggested Dumbledore.

'Yes,' said McGonagall, looking relieved.

'No, I don't,' said Dumbledore. 'I agree they are not impossible to overcome, but they are not designed to kill the trespasser – merely capture them, or slow them down at the very least. Well, if that's all … have a good day, Professors.'

The Professors bowed and filed out, still talking anxiously about what had happened at Gringotts – all except Snape.

'Severus – what can I do for you?'

'I only wish to know if you are going to move the Mirror now, given what's happened?'

'In good time,' said Dumbledore. 'Quite a remarkable feat, isn't it?' he added conversationally, indicating the _Prophet_ headline.

'I suppose. How on earth were they not caught?'

'How indeed? No one could infiltrate Gringotts without using Dark magic, and it takes unusual cunning to hoodwink a goblin.'

Dumbledore looked meaningfully up at Snape, who raised an eyebrow.

'Surely you don't think the Dark Lord was behind this? I was rather hoping you'd have come to a more sensible conclusion than everyone else.'

'Ah, but does 'everyone else' know what was inside that vault?' countered Dumbledore, smiling. 'We both know Voldemort's still out there, Severus. And we both know he'll be searching for the most direct shortcuts to power, no matter how outrageous or far-fetched they may be.'

Snape still looked unconvinced.

'He's been in exile for a decade. What do you imagine could have happened to change that? Besides, there must be countless men out there who would want eternal life and limitless gold.'

'Very true,' agreed Dumbledore, nodding sagely. 'And do you count yourself amongst them?'

'Certainly not!' Snape replied, looking insulted by the very suggestion.

'I know you don't,' said Dumbledore. 'A man is not supposed to live forever. And yet, this brings us back to Voldemort.'

'Let's say the Dark Lord is after the Stone. He wouldn't dare come near Hogwarts now the Stone is under your protection. You're the only one he ever feared,' said Snape, doing his best to avoid making it sound too complimentary.

'I'm flattered, Severus, but I have said it many times: Voldemort has powers I shall never have. On skill alone, I cannot say I would beat him.'

'Then why does he fear you?' asked Snape curiously.

'Because I know him,' said Dumbledore simply. 'I know him better than his own family did; I certainly know him better than his closest Death Eaters did – and he despises me for it. The truth is our greatest weapon, Severus. You should know that as well as anybody.'

Dumbledore idly turned a page of the newspaper and said unexpectedly, 'Young Harry Potter will be with us very soon. Hasn't the time flown by?'

Snape said nothing, though Dumbledore noticed how rigid the man's expression had become.

'The Stone won't be the only thing that needs protection at Hogwarts,' Dumbledore continued, still peering at Snape over his half-moon spectacles. 'I suppose you recall, ten years ago, giving your concurrence to help watch over Lily's son?'

Snape nodded stiffly.

'Good. Because if Voldemort is indeed on the path to restoration, then Harry's safety will be jeopardised sooner than we anticipated. I see no reason to burden Harry himself with that fact, but we as his teachers must put him at ease as soon as he arrives. Remember, he has no idea of the aura that shrouds him. His upbringing has been untoward to say the least; he wasn't even aware of what he and his parents were until yesterday. Can I trust that you will treat him with compassion, and fairness, as Lily would have wanted?'

Snape's nostrils flared dangerously, and he did not answer.

'Severus?' prompted Dumbledore.

Snape leant in closer.

'No,' he hissed. 'In case you've forgotten, my own childhood was void of any compassion, or fairness. No one was there to coddle me back into a civilised life. My parents were always too busy arguing to bother raising me properly. I was ridiculed throughout school by Potter and his despicable friends. Lily –'

'– Lily loved you,' muttered Dumbledore.

'She left me!' Snape corrected, and anger had propelled him to shout. 'I'm not saying it wasn't my fault, but she left me and ran off with Potter. And if I can stand here having never been cared for, then I don't see why the son of the great James Potter can't!'

'Severus –'

'I have agreed to protect him,' Snape hissed, pointing at Dumbledore. 'I never said anything about repairing him.'

With that, he spun on his heel and swept off.

'Severus,' repeated Dumbledore, sternly this time.

But in a whirl of billowing cloak, followed by the slamming of the office door, Snape was gone.


	13. The Journey From PNATQ – Fred and George

**THE JOURNEY FROM PLATFORM NINE AND THREE-QUARTERS**

 **FRED AND GEORGE**

'Right – Ron, are you sure you've got everything? Wand, Scabbers, socks? Ginny, I know you're excited but please stop running around, or else you can wait outside. Fred, George, where are you – I've got your sandwiches here –'

It was pandemonium in The Burrow. Molly and the six other Weasleys were moving about the small, rickety house with varying degrees of energy: the sign of another year at Hogwarts.

'… And how does the Sorting work?' Ron asked the twins as he collected his own sandwiches from the kitchen table.

'There's a test,' answered Fred, 'and if you fail the test, they kick you out straight away.'

'What kind of test?'

'Well, that depends on which house you want to be in,' explained George. 'There's a different test for each house, see. Oh, and it hurts a lot.'

'So if you want to be in Gryffindor, you obviously need to prove you're brave,' said Fred, straining to keep a straight face. 'You'll probably have to wrestle a troll, like we did.'

'Do _what_?'

'I'd better get going, Molly,' said Arthur over Ginny's singing and the heavy footfalls on the stairs. 'There's been another case of faulty hairbrushes in Southampton. These Muggles can't understand why their hair dyes a different colour every time they brush.'

'Goodness, imagine that – Alright, dear, I'll see you tonight,' said Molly, hurrying across the kitchen to peck her husband on the cheek.

'Have a wonderful year, boys,' Arthur called, hugging Ginny. 'Best of luck, Ron, I know you'll do brilliantly. Remember, we won't see you at Christmas so send lots of owls, all of you.'

'Bye, Dad,' chorused Fred, George and Ron.

'Goodbye, Father,' called Percy, who had just entered the kitchen. 'Mother, have you seen my Prefect badge?'

'Of course she has, you've been wearing it all summer,' said Fred, smirking.

'There is no way you've lost it,' George told Percy in disbelief. 'I bet you've hidden it yourself and just wanted an excuse to remind us you've got one.'

'Never mind, I've found it,' said Percy, his cheeks reddening as he took the red-and-gold badge out of his pocket and held it up. Fred and George laughed.

The Muggle minicab rolled up to the rugged front lawn at eight o'clock. They all stacked their trunks in the boot and bundled inside along with Hermes and Scabbers. The journey was far from comfortable, made no easier when Scabbers sniffed loudly in the driver's ear, causing him to yell out and almost veer into a lorry on the motorway. Nearly three hours later, though, they arrived in London in one piece.

'Come on then, boys,' said Molly, as they entered a bustling King's Cross station. 'Hold my hand, Ginny, dear, we don't want you getting lost. It's very busy, isn't it? **Packed with Muggles, of course.** Good grief, imagine having to squeeze inside those trains every day … **Now, what's the platform number?'**

' **Nine and three-quarters!'** shouted Ginny. **'Mum, can't I go …'**

' **You're not old enough, Ginny, now be quiet. All right, Percy, you go first.'**

Once Percy had steered his trunk through the ticket barrier, Molly turned to the twins.

' **Fred, you next.'**

' **I'm not Fred, I'm George,'** said Fred, feigning exasperation. **'Honestly, woman, call yourself our mother? Can't you** _ **tell**_ **I'm George?'**

' **Sorry, George, dear.'**

' **Only joking, I am Fred,'** grinned Fred. Before Molly could do anything more than roll her eyes, Fred had disappeared through the brick wall.

He turned and waited for his twin, and together they wheeled their trunks around and cut a path through the noisy crowd of students, parents and pets.

'There he is,' said George, pointing. A vat of steam had just cleared, so that a bunch of fellow third-years became visible.

Lee Jordan gave a yell of delight at the twins' arrival. There was a round of hand-clapping between the three, before Lee presented the box he'd been holding.

'What's in there?' asked Angelina Johnson, eying the box warily.

'Just a little furry-legged friend,' said Lee, winking at the twins.

' **Give us a look, Lee, go on.'**

Lee obediently lifted the lid for all to see; Angelina screamed and grabbed Alicia Spinnet, making Fred and George roar with laughter.

'Tarantula,' said Lee unnecessarily. 'My uncle bought it down Knockturn Alley.'

' _Brilliant!'_ chorused the twins.

'If that gets anywhere near me, Lee, I'll kill you,' Angelina warned.

'We'll be back in a sec, Lee, we've just got to dump these on the train,' said Fred, indicating his and George's trunks. They set off along the platform until they found a compartment near the end of the train. Once they had heaved the trunks onto luggage racks, they backed out onto the platform again, when George spotted a skinny, black-haired boy, a first-year by the look of him, struggling to lift his own heavy trunk onto the train.

' **Want a hand?'** said George.

' **Yes, please,'** the boy panted, looking enormously relieved.

George called for Fred and together they pulled the boy's trunk into another empty compartment. Once the trunk was tucked away, the boy thanked them and brushed aside his sweaty hair; in doing so, he revealed a lightning-shaped scar on his forehead, at which the twins performed a double-take.

' **What's that?'** said Fred, pointing.

' **Blimey …** ' breathed George, as realisation struck him. **'Are you –?'**

' **He** _ **is**_ **! Aren't you?'** said Fred to the boy excitedly.

' **What?'** said the boy, evidently confused.

' _ **Harry Potter!'**_

' **Oh, him. I mean, yes I am.'**

The twins stared, partly in awe at meeting the famous Harry Potter, and partly in surprise that he wasn't quite as bright as they thought he would be.


	14. Neville l Draco

_A/N: Thanks for your kind reviews, I read and appreciate each one._

* * *

 **NEVILLE / DRACO**

At the other end of the train, Neville was confronting a familiar problem of his.

'He can't have gone far, dear,' said Augusta Longbottom wearily, for the third time that morning. 'You'd better get on the train, it's leaving in a few minutes.'

'But, Gran –'

'I'm sure he'll turn up,' said Augusta firmly, practically pushing Neville onto the train. 'Now, remember to send lots of letters, and I'll pass them on to Mum and Dad. Goodbye, dear.'

'Goodbye, Gran,' said Neville. Once the carriage door closed, he immediately began crawling under the seats of an empty compartment in search of Trevor.

'… Father's going to write to the school and ask them to change the rules,' came a drawling voice, floating into the compartment. 'I've been flying since I was six, I don't see why I can't get on the Quidditch team just because I'm a first year – What's going on here?'

'I've lost my toad,' answered Neville; he bumped his head on the seat as he straightened up. The boy, pale-faced with sleek blond hair, sniggered; his two burly friends guffawed belatedly.

'Well, get your fat arse out the way, we're taking this compartment,' the boy sneered.

'There's no need to be rude,' Neville scowled, though he moved out nonetheless. Finally, the train gave an ear-splitting whistle and shuddered into life, causing Neville to stumble and fall flat on his face. He scrambled back to his feet and hurried down the corridor amidst the three boys' howls of laughter.

He began knocking on every compartment to ask if anyone had seen a toad, but soon lost taste for the idea: most of them shook their heads and carried on their conversations; some merely laughed like the blond boy, and the older students scarcely bothered to register his appearance. Even the old lady with the trolley was no help.

Over an hour later, with an increasing sense of hopelessness, Neville reached one of the last compartments on the train. He knocked, and opened the door without waiting for a response. A pair of first-years were inside, one with red hair and freckles, the other with untidy black hair and round glasses.

' **Sorry, but have you seen a toad at all?'**

Like everyone else, they shook their heads.

' **I've lost him!'** Neville moaned. **'He keeps getting away from me!'**

' **He'll turn up,'** said the black-haired boy.

' **Yes … Well, if you see him …'**

Neville departed and slumped down the corridor, wondering what to do next. What would Gran say if he lost Trevor? He had bought him in Diagon Alley only two weeks ago. He was on verge of giving up when a girl with bushy brown hair strode towards him down the aisle, tutting under her breath.

' _No_ manners whatsoever, _honestly_ – What are you doing?' she asked when she spotted Neville. 'Haven't you found a seat?'

'No, it's not that. I've lost Trevor, my toad,' Neville said miserably. 'I thought he jumped on the train when I wasn't looking, but I can't find him anywhere.'

'Oh, I'll help you find him,' said the girl kindly. 'Come on, we can ask around. I'm Hermione, by the way, Hermione Granger.'

'Neville Longbottom,' said Neville. 'And I've already asked around –'

But Hermione had already burst into the compartment containing the two first-year boys. One of them, the redhead, now had his wand poised over his sleeping rat.

' **Has anyone seen a toad? Neville here's lost one,'** Hermione told them bossily.

Once they had again confirmed they had not seen Trevor, Hermione instead prompted the redhead to perform the spell she had interrupted. Disappointingly, the spell failed; thinking again of Trevor's possible whereabouts, Neville tuned out of the discussion that followed, though his attention was re-diverted when the black-haired boy declared himself as Harry Potter. The story of Harry and You-Know-Who was one Neville had enjoyed hearing many times throughout his childhood, and his Gran was somehow proud of the fact that her grandson and Harry Potter almost shared the same birthday. It was a strange thing to see him in person.

'… **Anyway, we'd better go and look for Neville's toad,'** said Hermione finally. **'You two had better change, you know, I expect we'll be there soon.'**

Hermione led Neville down the corridor once more.

'You might have to wait until we reach the station, Neville,' said Hermione. 'I'm sure someone will search the train properly once it's empty.'

'Yes, I suppose. Was that really Harry Potter back there?'

'Yes – although he didn't seem too sure himself, did he?'

Suddenly, the door to their immediate right slid open and the pale-faced boy that had tormented Neville earlier stuck his head out.

'Harry Potter, did you say? Here, on the train?'

'Yes,' Neville mumbled.

'Where?'

'Down the other end –'

'Out of my way,' said Draco immediately, pushing past the round-faced boy, who then had his shoulder checked by both Crabbe and Goyle. They ignored the girl's protests and set off down the corridor.

'Where're we going, Draco?'

'To find Potter,' said Draco, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.

'Is he really on the train? He was joking, I reckon,' grunted Crabbe.

'Only one way to find out,' said Draco smoothly. As it happened, more whispers of Harry Potter floated out a third-year compartment, and Draco's excitement mounted.

'And why do we need to see him?' asked Goyle.

'Honestly, you two, do I have to explain everything?' sighed Draco. 'Potter's the most famous person on this train. Imagine how much respect we'll get if he sides with us. This is our best chance to make that happen.'

Once they had located the right compartment, Draco opened the door without knocking.

Five minutes later, however, the three of them were quickly backing out the compartment: Goyle was clutching his bleeding finger and Draco himself was suffering a sting to his ego.

'He'll regret that!' he spat. 'What's he playing at, hanging around with Weasley? What a waste. And stop moaning, Goyle, it was only a nibble … Yes, I bet that little blood traitor was lapping up the attention. Oh, Potter is going to pay for this …'


	15. The Sorting Hat – Sir Nicholas

**THE SORTING HAT**

 **SIR NICHOLAS**

For someone who had resided in the same building as Peeves for nearly five hundred years, Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington had managed to remain relatively sane. Of course, rarely a year went by when the poltergeist didn't attempt to tarnish the ghosts' reputation in some way; this year was no exception.

'I pinky promise I won't misbehave,' Peeves was saying in his most saintly voice. 'You can trust me on that.'

He was speaking before the whole Ghosts' Council in the courtyard outside the Entrance Hall. The ghosts were floating in a horseshoe formation, shining silver in the moonlight.

'But we can't trust you, Peeves, that's the point,' said the Grey Lady, her voice gentle yet firm. 'How can we allow you to attend the Start-of-Term Feast when we saw you causing havoc in a disused classroom only this morning?'

'I was merely rearranging the furniture, Your Ladyship,' replied Peeves.

'And what about all the trouble you gave Mr Filch last year? I suppose he _asked_ you to trap Mrs Norris in that suit of armour?' enquired Nicholas.

'I believed I was doing him a favour, Your Not-Quite-So-Headlessness,' said Peeves, bowing low. 'That cat is a beastly creature.'

'That's rich coming from you!' piped up Moaning Myrtle.

'Oh, be quiet you silly girl, no one asked you –'

'Enough!' boomed the Bloody Baron, and Peeves fell silent at once, looking sheepish. 'We will discuss this further without your presence, Peeves.'

'I wasn't aware further discussion was needed,' said the Grey Lady sleekly. A prickly silence followed: it was rare for the Grey Lady and the Bloody Baron to see eye-to-eye, let alone directly address one another.

Finally, the Baron spoke again to Peeves.

'You will abstain from attending tonight's feast, Peeves. The council will decide in due course whether you can be trusted to attend future feasts, namely those at Hallowe'en and Christmas, and our decision will be final.'

For a moment, Peeves looked as though he was going to embark on another tantrum. However, with what looked like an enormous effort, he bowed low once more and said, 'Yes, Your Bloodiness. I await your decision, Your Bloodiness.'

With that, Peeves zoomed up and away; the ghosts broke off into smaller groups and floated back through the castle wall.

Nicholas drifted alongside the Fat Friar.

'What an ordeal. You were keeping quiet, I'd rather have liked to hear your take on the matter.'

' **Forgive and forget, I say, we ought to give him a second chance –'**

' **My dear Friar, haven't we given Peeves all the chances he deserves? He gives us all a bad name and you know, he's not really even a ghost – I say, what are you all doing here?'**

For only then had Nicholas noticed they were no longer alone. About forty boys and girls in robes were congregated in the chamber. Judging by their pale faces and bewildered expressions, they could only be –

' **New students!'** smiled the Fat Friar, when no one answered. **'About to be Sorted, I suppose? Hope to see you in Hufflepuff! My old house, you know.'**

' **Move along now,'** ordered Minerva McGonagall, who had just entered the chamber herself. **'The Sorting Ceremony's about to start.'**

Nicholas and the Friar led the way through the opposite wall, and across the Entrance Hall. Most of the ghosts, including Moaning Myrtle, zoomed off to their usual residencies around the castle; the House ghosts and Professor Binns proceeded to the Great Hall, where they bid each other farewell and parted to their relevant tables. A thousand candles were floating in mid-air, making the plates and goblets shimmer with golden light.

The Gryffindors greeted Nicholas with enthusiasm as they waited for the first-years to arrive.

'Hi, Nick,' said Fred. 'How's it hanging?'

'By the skin of his neck, still,' smirked George.

'Yes, _very_ amusing, Mr Weasleys,' said Nicholas, while Lee, Angelina and Alicia chuckled. 'But you can't keep using the same joke, you know. It's getting rather tedious.'

'Oh, I think we can.'

'How was your summer, Nick?' asked Angelina.

'Too short, my dear, as is always the case for us ghosts,' said Nicholas. 'The seasons tick by far too quickly when you've seen as many years as I. You wait all year for summer, for warmth and sunshine, yet it's over before you know it. Autumn arrives with indecent haste, with winter just around the corner. Before you know it, it's summer again. Bear that in mind as you grow older.'

'Wise words,' said Fred.

'Eye-opening stuff,' said George.

'Your sarcasm, as entertaining it undoubtedly is for your friends, is incredibly unhelpful,' Nicholas told the twins with dignity. Behind him, the line of first-years were filing into the Hall, huddling before the stool at the teachers' table. 'Part of my duty is to offer guidance to the students of Gryffindor house. If you think my advice is of little use to you, you need only say.'

'We're only joking, Nick,' said Fred.

'Yeah, we admire you really,' said George. 'You do give great advice.'

'Absolutely. We think you've got a good head on those shoulders – even if it does keep falling off.'

Nicholas glared at the twins. He turned his back on the third-years' renewed sniggers, just as every eye in the Hall fell upon the Sorting Hat.


	16. The Sorting Hat

**THE SORTING HAT**

The moment the Sorting Hat's song ended, the Great Hall burst into appreciative applause, followed by a sense of anticipation as Professor McGonagall stepped to the fore.

' **When I call your name, you will put on the hat and sit on the stool to be sorted – Abbott, Hannah!'**

One by one, the new students came forward, tried on the Hat and awaited their fate. As was the case every year, the Hat's decisions were largely clear-cut, but there were a handful that were trickier to place.

The first of these was **'Finnigan, Seamus!'**

A sandy-haired boy jostled through the throng of students and perched on the stool.

 _Let's see, let's see,_ the Hat told him. _Yes, I see passion, and lots of it. Of course, Slytherin values passion most highly –_

What! I can't be in Slytherin!

 _Why ever not? Slytherin will help you channel that passion – but if you insist … Now, passion can be used in many ways: it can make you hard-working, which Hufflepuff admires; or give you a hunger for knowledge, which would make you a Ravenclaw._

What about Gryffindor?

 _See, I would put you in Gryffindor, but I fear your fiery streak might lead you into trouble with your peers. The lion is the proudest beast of all, but too much pride leads to recklessness. Can you be trusted to enter the lions' den?_

Yes, you silly hat, I want to be in Gryffindor!

 _Very well. But I warn you, Mr Finnigan: you are with these people for seven years, and you will not get along with them all the time. For now, though –_

' **GRYFFINDOR!'**

Seamus rushed off to be replaced by **'Granger, Hermione!'** who eagerly shoved the Hat atop her bushy brown hair.

 _Oh my, what a remarkable mind you have._ _If I have sat on a smarter young head than yours, I can scarcely remember it. Needless to say that Ravenclaw would be a most suitable home for you, where your thirst for learning can be wholly quenched … But wait – there's more to you than that, isn't there? Yes, yes … You have great spirit, I see that. And, after all, a person cannot succeed on brains alone. One needs a strong heart, courage in the face of adversity. And since you possess both, Miss Granger, you ought to be in –_

' **GRYFFINDOR!'**

Hermione headed to the far left table, looking very pleased with herself.

Neville Longbottom proved to be an unusual case. The Hat had never came across someone so reluctant to be put in Gryffindor.

 _I can see your courage. It may be deep down, perhaps too deep for you to notice, but I can assure you it's there._

But – I'm clumsy! I'm not brave, I can hardly do magic! I thought I was a Squib until I got my letter –

 _Every great wizard started off as unassuming and anxious as you. You may not feel brave now, but you will with time. How can a person become courageous unless he is given the chance to find his courage? This is your chance._

But –

 _I remember both your parents sitting on this stool. I put them both in Gryffindor without hesitation. Courage runs in your blood. You are no Squib: You are a Longbottom. Now, get your sorry self to –_

' **GRYFFINDOR!'**

In his eagerness to reach the Gryffindor table and out of the spotlight, Neville left with the Hat still on his head. The Hall rang with laughter as he returned it, pink-faced.

Ten minutes later, the Hall was filled with the sounds of loud conversation, the chinking of goblets and cutlery, and the wonderful smell of hot, rich food.

'So,' said Dumbledore to McGonagall, who had just returned from stashing away the Hat and stool. He swallowed his mouthful of roast beef. 'Young Harry will be taken under your wing. I won't pretend I'm not a little relieved about that.' He privately envisaged how Severus would have reacted had Harry been placed in Slytherin.

'I thought we'd agreed not to show the boy favouritism, Albus,' frowned McGonagall, helping herself to gravy. 'That we'd treat him as nothing more or less than a Hogwarts student?'

'I stand by that agreement; I was not insinuating otherwise, Minerva. But I can now rest assured that he is surrounded by the right people. He seems to have already befriended the Weasley boys, who I am sure will have a positive influence on him. Yes, I think everything has gone to plan so far.'

Further along the High Table, at the end nearest the Slytherins, Snape was listening to Quirrell's first-hand account of how he had obtained his ludicrous turban.

'… So the Prince t-took me to where the zombie hid, and handed m-me a wooden c-club. But I told h-him, "You c-cannot defeat a zombie by force. It will k-keep coming back unless you c-curse it away".

'And this African Prince was a Muggle?' asked Snape. His eyes flickered past Quirrell and across the Gryffindor table, finding those of Harry Potter's. At the sight of the boy's messy black hair and glasses, he experienced a stab of loathing and looked away. He returned to Quirrell's stuttered, garbled story without really listening, and cut open his roast potato with more force than was necessary.

Of course the boy had been Sorted into Gryffindor. Brave, heroic, _wonderful_ Gryffindor. He was James Potter all over again. Except the tables had fully turned. The tormented would become the tormentor, and that thought made Snape's lip curl. Oh, he was looking forward to Potter's first Potions lesson.


	17. The Potions Master – Hermione

**THE POTIONS MASTER**

 **HERMIONE**

Hermione was the first to rise the next morning. Desperate though she was to head downstairs and plunge into her first magical lesson, she waited patiently in bed for the other girls to stir, and passed the time by perusing _The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1._

After what felt like a very long time, there was movement amongst the other four-posters. The girl called Lavender rubbed her eyes and sat up.

'You like reading, don't you,' she said to Hermione, yawning.

'I've got a lot to learn: I grew up without knowing any of this,' smiled Hermione.

'I'm sure you'll be fine, Hermione,' said Parvati, while brushing her long dark hair in front of a mirror. 'I haven't even looked at my books. You'll be one of the best in the class, I expect.'

'Oh, I doubt it,' lied Hermione, still smiling; modesty was always something she struggled with.

Lavender then began gushing over Parvati's plaits, at which point it became difficult for Hermione to join in with the conversation. The other two girls (Fay, and a redhead whose name escaped Hermione) departed without a word, and Hermione was soon bored by Lavender and Parvati: they were clearly the type of girls who cared more about what was in their hair than what was in their brains. Hermione had seen enough of such girls at her old school. She had rather hoped witches wouldn't be as dull as Muggles.

Having read _Hogwarts: A History_ during the summer holidays, Hermione was already aware of the sheer size of the castle, but that didn't mean she knew her way around it – but she was so keen to get to her classes that she asked the older students for directions, seeking out Prefects when she could. Percy Weasley was very sensible and helpful, and was one of the select few Gryffindors who didn't race around the castle making as much noise as possible. Thus, Hermione was always first to arrive at class, and would sit in the front row, where she couldn't be distracted.

Parvati had been right. Hermione was, by a long way, the smartest in their class. She was even smarter than Harry Potter, who wasn't as impressive as she had expected. Hermione was the only pupil to turn her matchstick into a needle in Transfiguration; she also knew every answer to three complicated questions in their Potions class, but, for the first time in her life, the teacher was not impressed by her knowledge.

The only lesson in which she knew she would struggle was flying. Over breakfast the following Thursday, nerves had propelled her to bombard her fellow Gryffindors with tips she had read in _Quidditch Through the Ages_ , unaware that Neville alone was listening to her.

She tried to recite these tips to herself as they crossed the sunny lawns outside with the Slytherins. However, her fear of falling had swept everything else from her mind, and she was back to where she started.

Her broomstick seemed to sense her fear, for it was as reluctant to leave the ground as she was. She was hugely relieved when a distraction arose in the form of Neville taking off before everyone else, before he zoomed away, out of control, and finally tumbled back to earth. Madam Hooch examined the damage, before carrying Neville off to the hospital wing.

 **'Did you see his face, the great lump?'** laughed Draco Malfoy, to whom Hermione and the other Gryffindors had taken an instant dislike. He then picked up Neville's Remembrall from the grass, which must have fallen from Neville's pocket.

 **'Give that here, Malfoy.'**

Harry had stepped forward, his expression defiant.

Malfoy smirked.

 **'I think I'll leave it somewhere for Longbottom to find – how about – up a tree?'**

 **'Give it here!'**

Next thing, Malfoy had taken off in the air, and Harry snatched his own broom.

 **'No!'** Hermione shouted, grabbing Harry's arm. **'Madam Hooch told us not to move – you'll get us all in trouble.'**

It was no good. Harry mounted and left the ground, and Hermione could only shake her head in disbelief. How could someone be so stupid?

'He's going to get himself killed,' said Hermione shrilly, but everyone was too busy screaming or cheering to listen. Even more annoying was that Harry was actually a good flier. When Malfoy launched the Remembrall and Harry dived after it, Hermione had to refrain from clapping with everyone else.

 **'HARRY POTTER!'**

It was Professor McGonagall, looking furious. Parvati and Ron began to protest, but McGonagall whisked Harry away immediately, much to Malfoy's satisfaction.

'Oh dear, oh dear,' he said, smirking once more. 'I think that might be the last we see of the famous Potter. All because of Longbottom and his stupid toy.'

'That was _your_ fault, you little –' began Ron angrily; but Crabbe and Goyle stepped in front of Malfoy, cracking their knuckles menacingly, and Ron seemed to think better of it.

Without a teacher, the Gryffindors and Slytherins set off back to the castle separately. Hermione could hear Malfoy's distant laughter all the way to the Entrance Hall.

'Honestly, if we'd all listened to Madam Hooch, none of this would have happened,' said Hermione bossily. 'I _told_ Harry not to follow Malfoy, and now he's going to be expelled –'

'He won't get expelled for that,' Ron snapped at her. 'You should stay out of this, you'll only make it worse. I expect you were glad when McGonagall showed up, weren't you?'

'Yes, I was! How else will we learn not to break the rules?'

Ron shook his head in disgust, and Hermione turned away with her nose in the air. Somehow, she didn't think this would be the last disagreement she would have with Ron Weasley.


	18. Hallowe'en – Quirinius l Hermione

**HALLOWE'EN**

 **QUIRINIUS / HERMIONE**

 _THUMP_

 _THUMP_

 _THUMP_

For every step the great mountain troll took, the creatures of the Forest floor scattered, the birds flew from their perches. Outreaching branches scratched at the troll's leathery skin, though it hardly noticed. It just kept plodding through the Forest until the strange man with the purple turban decided otherwise.

Quirrell remained a little ahead of the lumbering beast, leading it along with his wand. He spoke aloud, apparently to himself, as he walked.

'That Stone will be ours tonight, Master,' he said happily, over the crunching of browned leaves underfoot and the troll's mindless grunts.

 _I am not so certain,_ replied Voldemort, his high, cold voice channelling through Quirrell's mind. Quirrell's heart sank. _Are you fool enough to have forgotten the protection surrounding it? You don't even know how to get past Hagrid's beast yet._

'I am working on it, Master –'

 _Work faster_ , hissed Voldemort. _If the Stone is not mine by the end of the year, you will not see another year. Do you understand?_

'Yes, Master,' said Quirrell, before turning his attention to the task in hand. They had reached the edge of the Forest. He ordered the troll to stop, using its language, and then performed a Disillusion Charm upon both the troll and himself. Beginning with its disproportionately small head, the troll slowly disappeared from view, as though a curtain was falling in front of it. Quirrell then used a Silencing Charm, for good measure.

' _Forward,'_ he grunted in Troll. Though he could not see the beast, he could see its footprints forming one by one in the muddy lawns.

They passed Hagrid's empty hut and proceeded all the way through the oak front doors. Their footsteps across the Entrance Hall were completely lost in the raucous babble of the feast to their right.

Down the dungeon steps … along the cold corridor. Satisfied, Quirrell removed the charms on himself and the troll. Struck by an idea, he conjured a thick wooden club from thin air and handed it to the troll.

' _Use it wisely,'_ Quirrell spoke in Troll, smirking. The troll gave a happy sort of grunt and wandered off, dragging the club along in its overly-long arm.

 _Hurry_ , said Voldemort.

But Quirrell was already sprinting back the way he came, wearing his best expression of shock and fear. He flew up the dungeon steps and burst into the Great Hall, not stopping until he reached the Head Table. The Hall fell silent. Every eye, teacher, student and ghost, was on him.

 **'Troll,'** he gasped to a frowning Dumbledore. **'In the dungeon – Thought you ought to know.'**

And he collapsed.

–––

In the first-floor girls' bathroom, Hermione was crying. The tears had been rolling ever since the end of Charms class, in which Ron had jabbed and jibed at her non-stop. There was nothing new in people not getting along with her and talking behind her back, but this had particularly hurt: she had realised then that she quite liked Ron. Which was absurd, because he clearly didn't like her.

Once the tears had started, they had been impossible to stop. Now that the wonder of Hogwarts had worn off, the brutal realisation that she had no friends had reduced her to being shut inside this dank cubicle all afternoon. What was more, she was homesick. She had never gone a month without seeing her parents, and she missed them both terribly. What wouldn't she give to have her father's arms around her now, to see her mother's beaming smile –

The cubicle door swung open and a shriek of surprise rang around the bathroom walls.

'Oh, Hermione,' gasped Parvati, upon recognising her. 'What are you – Are you OK?'

'I'm fine,' said Hermione thickly, hastily wiping her eyes.

But Parvati put her hand on Hermione's shoulder, tutting with pity.

'What happened? Should I get a teacher –?'

'I said I'm fine,' said Hermione angrily, shrugging off Parvati's hand. Parvati looked taken aback, and Hermione regretted it at once. In softer tones, she said, 'I'm sorry, Parvati. I just want to be left alone.'

'OK …' Parvati nodded, hesitated, then left.

The moment the door closed, Hermione burst into sobs again. Ron's last words were ringing in her ears.

 ** _It's no wonder no one can stand her … she's a nightmare, honestly._**

He had been right, of course. The encounter with Parvati proved it. How could she expect to make friends when she snapped at girls she shared a dormitory with?

An awful smell brought her back to her senses. There was shuffling outside again. Not wanting a repeat of her last conversation, Hermione choked back her last tears, wiped her face again and stepped out the cubicle.

It was her turn to scream. The noise escaped her the moment she set eyes on the towering, hulking, stinking figure of what she recognised immediately as a mountain troll.

–––

'Up you get, Quirinius. That's it.'

Quirrell feigned giddiness and straightened up, finding the face of Albus Dumbledore. He had 'fainted' for less than five minutes, yet the Great Hall had been completely evacuated already.

'Headm-master,' Quirrell stammered. 'Thank you. I mean, sorry. The shock, you know.'

'Of course, of course,' said Dumbledore kindly, guiding Quirrell along the tables and through the front doors. 'I think a trip to the hospital wing is in order. I can assist you –'

'Oh, no, I can m-make it myself, Headmaster. Thank you.'

He could sense Voldemort's impatience. Time was running out.

Once out of Dumbledore's sight, Quirrell sprinted up a secret staircase, which took him to the third-floor corridor. His heart pounded as he marched along it, eyes fixed on the locked door at the end.

' _Alohomora,'_ he muttered, and the lock clicked. He creaked the door open and gave a gasp of horror.

The dog was awake. Six yellow eyes fixed on him and narrowed. Their growls rumbled through Quirrell's whole body, shortening his breath.

He stepped inside the room, never taking his eyes off the three-headed dog. In his peripheral vision he could see the trapdoor, which was unguarded. The luck, it seemed, was on his side. He drew his wand, preparing to curse.

' _Quirrell!'_

That hiss could only belong to one person. Sure enough, Quirrell spun around to find Snape at the door. There was loathing in every line of his sallow face.

'S-Severus,' stammered Quirrell, his brain working furiously. 'I was just – I feared the troll had escaped from the chambers –'

But Snape grabbed the back of Quirrell robes and pulled him out the way. The three-headed dog began barking, a cacophony of harsh cries.

'Get out of here, you fool, the troll's still downstairs – ARGH!'

Snape's inattentiveness to the dog had cost him dearly. The middle head had darted forward and snapped its teeth at Snape, who didn't move quickly enough. The teeth had torn through his robe and carved a nasty gash in his leg.

Clenching his teeth, Snape limped out the room and slammed the door on the dog's incessant barking.

'S-Severus – goodness,' whispered Quirrell, his eyes widening at the sight of Snape's injured leg.

'Never mind that!' spat Snape. 'What on earth were you doing up here? Come with me, now!'

Snape led the way downstairs, limping as he ran. They followed the distant crashing noises from somewhere on the first floor. They joined McGonagall along the first-floor corridor and burst into the girls' bathroom.


	19. Quidditch – Quirinius l Severus

**QUIDDITCH**

 **QUIRINIUS / SEVERUS**

The sun was hot and bright over the Quidditch stands. Quirrell edged along a row and took a seat alongside Professor Trelawney, then watched as the fourteen players entered the pitch amidst whoops and cheers from the crowd. He scanned the red-and-gold-clad players until he located Potter, the smallest player on the pitch.

Madam Hooch blew her whistle and the players rose level with the crowd and began criss-crossing each other at high speed, the balls flying everywhere.

 _You know what to do,_ hissed Voldemort. _I want that boy dead, do you understand?_

 _Yes, Master,_ thought Quirrell. He stared intently at Potter's broom, easily the fastest of the fourteen. He waited until it was stationary, then muttered the spell in less than a whisper.

' _Locomotor.'_

He focused his whole mind on that broom, until it was under his total control. Next to him, Professor Trelawney noticed nothing. The Nimbus rose higher and higher in the air. Then it began jolting this way and that, responding to every movement of Quirrell's eyes, every twitch of his mind.

Gradually, the crowd realised what was happening. Quirrell could once again sense Voldemort's rising impatience, but Potter refused to let go of his broom. What was more, Quirrell could hear someone behind him muttering a counter-curse.

Just when it seemed Potter could not cling on another second, something or someone barged into the back of Quirrell, and he lost connection with the broom.

–––

Snape smelt the smoke before he saw it. He had been so focused on preventing Potter from being tossed off his broom that it had taken a good thirty seconds for him to realise his robe was alight. He cursed aloud and looked down: he saw no flames, though the hem of his robe was clearly singed. Perplexed, he turned his attention back to the skies, just as the red-and-gold stands erupted.

Potter was sprawled on the ground, holding up the Golden Snitch, a huge grin on his face. Reminded forcibly of James, Snape suppressed his sudden burst of loathing and scanned the row below for the large purple turban; he was convinced Quirrell had been jinxing Potter's broom, though he had no real proof. Either way, Quirrell was already at the end of the row and descending the stand, and was soon lost in the mass of students and teachers swarming over the lawns.

The Gryffindors' deafening victory chants followed Snape all the way to the Entrance Hall. He flew up the marble staircase and swiftly ascended the castle until he reached the gargoyle stood sentinel outside the Headmaster's office.

'Sherbet lemon,' Snape muttered, and the gargoyle sprang aside. Once he reached the top of the spiral staircase, he knocked on the office door and heard Dumbledore's usual 'Come in'.

'I've just come from the Quidditch game,' Snape announced, clicking the door shut.

'Ah, of course,' said Dumbledore. 'The result?'

'Never mind the result,' said Snape tersely, though his tone probably gave away the answer; Dumbledore seemed to repress a smile. 'You might be interested to know that someone in the stands was trying to dismount Potter from his broomstick during the game.'

Dumbledore sighed.

'Severus, this is too far. I know you're not fond of the boy, but –'

'I didn't mean me!' exclaimed Snape, outraged. 'I was the one trying to stop it!'

'Of course. My mistake. Did you happen to spot the person responsible?'

'Well – I couldn't see his face because he was sitting in front of me – but the evidence points to Quirrell. He would have reason to take revenge on Potter after his interference at Hallowe'en, would he not?'

'Hmm,' murmured Dumbledore, apparently unconvinced.

'You still don't believe Quirrell let that troll in as a diversion?' Snape asked in disbelief. 'I caught him _inside_ the trapdoor room, when you yourself had sent him to the hospital wing. Not to mention he had his wand out, preparing to curse that beast of Hagrid's. And now this. You told me to keep an eye on him in the first week of term, yet you choose to ignore everything I report back to you?'

'I'm not choosing to ignore it, I'm simply choosing not to act on it,' said Dumbledore coolly.

'I'm aware of that: that Mirror of yours is still lurking in that disused classroom, anyone could stumble upon it. Why?'

'Because the Stone is in no immediate danger, and the Mirror can serve other purposes in the meantime. Look, if Quirrell is indeed interested in procuring the Stone, whether for himself or another, we cannot start levelling such accusations against our own members of staff.'

'I see,' lied Snape. 'And how many more students will Quirrell attempt to kill before you choose to act?'

'I will attend the next Gryffindor game myself,' said Dumbledore firmly. 'And perhaps you ought to referee their next game, as an extra precaution.'

'You want me to referee?' frowned Snape. Of all the requests Dumbledore had made of him, this was surely the most bizarre.

'Yes – You know the rules, don't you?'

'Yes I know the rules!' Snape snapped.

'Excellent,' said Dumbledore, leading Snape out of his office. The bell had rung for lunch. 'Then, between us, we should keep our Quidditch pitch a murder-free zone.'


	20. The Mirror of Erised – Albus l Tom

**THE MIRROR OF ERISED**

 **ALBUS / TOM**

The material was like liquid glass in Dumbledore's hands, as shiny and soft as the day James Potter had handed it to him over ten years ago. His sense of longing attached to the Cloak of Invisibility had not lessened in that time, either – but the time had come to let go. The Cloak was not his. It never had been, and he would not allow that boyhood wonder to keep it a second longer than necessary. Harry needed it a hundred times more than he did.

Dumbledore poured the Cloak on his desk. He placed the note he had written within its folds; then, with a wave of his wand, he watched both Cloak and note become enveloped in wrapping paper.

Fawkes landed on the parcel, its doleful black eyes looking up a Dumbledore. He stroked the old bird's head.

'Don't be seen,' he whispered.

Fawkes blinked once. Next second, phoenix and parcel had vanished in a flash of fire.

–––

Voldemort winced again and again under Quirrell's turban as Fred and George's snowballs hit him repeatedly in the face.

 _Make it stop, you fool!_ he shrieked at Quirrell. _Who is it?_

 _The Weasley twins, Master!_

 _They'll pay for that one day,_ thought Voldemort.

–––

At the High Table on Boxing Day morning, Snape informed Dumbledore of the night's events: that Filch had heard someone wandering the first-floor corridor, near the library. Given that it was the same night following Harry's procurement of the Invisibility Cloak, in addition to the fact they had not been caught, Dumbledore thought he knew who the wanderer was. He could see Harry now at the Gryffindor table, speaking in a hushed, excited voice to Ron.

And so, brushing aside Snape's accusations against Quirrell, Dumbledore set off that night to the very corridor Harry would have escaped through. Incidentally, the disused classroom containing the Mirror containing the Stone was close by.

Dumbledore cast a perfect Disillusionment Charm upon himself and peered inside the classroom. His hunch was proved true: Harry was stood before the Mirror, and he had brought Ron with him.

With silent steps, Dumbledore moved around the edge of the room, watching the boys. Now Ron had jumped in front of the Mirror and exclaimed what he saw reflecting back at him, deeply impressed.

After a short discussion on what the Mirror might represent, the boys left. Judging by Harry's extreme reluctance to tear his eyes from his family behind the glass, it wouldn't be the last time Dumbledore would find him here.

As Dumbledore had expected and feared, Harry returned the following night, alone. Perched on one of the desks in a shadowy corner, Dumbledore had not even needed to render himself invisible, so determined was Harry to get to the Mirror. He sat there, cross-legged before the Mirror and Dumbledore was saddened to realise the poor boy would stay there all night. That could not happen.

' **So – Back again, Harry?'**

Unsurprisingly, Harry jumped out of his skin and spun around.

' **I – I didn't see you, sir.'**

' **Strange how** **short-sighted being invisible can make you,'** Dumbledore replied, smiling. He slipped off the desk and sat next to Harry.

He then proceeded to tell Harry what he needed to know of the Mirror's power, as any full-grown man would need to know. Once he had finished, Harry asked the question Dumbledore had been half-expecting.

' **What do you see when you look in the Mirror?'**

' **I? I see myself holding a pair of thick, woollen socks,'** he answered, lying easily. He did not condemn Harry's curiosity, but neither should curiosity always be rewarded with the truth.

Once Harry had left, Dumbledore experienced a child-like rush of longing. He had resisted looking into the Mirror ever since placing the Stone inside it, but Harry's craving had rubbed off on him. His eyes found the glass, and his old heart skipped a beat.

Ariana appeared at the fore, as young and sweet as he remembered. She was smiling a half-smile, which Dumbledore sadly returned. His own reflection stood next to her, so close yet so, so far. How he missed his dear sister, taken from him in brutal, tragic circumstances. On his other side, with a hand on his shoulder, was Aberforth. Dumbledore could not remember the last time he saw his brother smile, but he smiled now. He looked younger and more handsome when he did.

Behind the three siblings stood their parents, as tall as their eldest son. They had always been hard-faced and solemn but that was all forgotten in their smiles, smiles that told Dumbledore they were proud.

Ariana reached up a tiny hand and clutched his robes, her smile widening. He could almost hear her laughing. Dumbledore's fingers reached down but they found only thin, empty, cold air, as he knew they would.

Finally, Dumbledore turned his back on his reunited, reconciled family. As he left the empty room, he removed his glasses and brushed the tears from his eyes.


	21. Norbert the Norwegian Ridgeback – Rubeus

**NORBERT THE NORWEGIAN RIDGEBACK**

 **RUBEUS**

The door of the Hog's Head creaked open. Hagrid looked up to see a hooded figure glide inside. He took a swig of his mead and watched the figure, presumably a man, order a drink from the bar. Once served, the cloaked figure cast a sweeping glance (though his face remained in shadow) around the pub; to Hagrid's surprise, the man swept between the tables and headed to his corner.

'Evenin',' said Hagrid cautiously; he was often wary of meeting strangers in the Hog's Head.

'Good evening. Mind if I join you?' spoke the face beneath the hood.

Hagrid waved an airy hand, and the man took the seat opposite him.

'You local?' Hagrid asked the stranger.

'No, just a traveller stopping by,' lied Quirrell. 'Yourself?'

'Yeah, I work up at the school. Gamekeeper.'

'At Hogwarts? I see. And what does that job entail?'

'Well, mainly keeping the Forest safe fer the students, takin' care o' the creatures, tha' sorta thing.'

'I see. What sort of creatures? Let me get you another drink,' Quirrell added, for Hagrid had just emptied his tankard.

Once Quirrell returned with a fresh tankard of mead, Hagrid answered:

'All sorts, really. Thestrals, Acromatula, unicorns. Then there's the centaurs, but they can take care o' themselves. Like I said, a bit of ev'rythin'. No dragons, though,' he added with a rueful smile.

'You like dragons?'

'Always wanted one,' Hagrid admitted. 'Beau'iful creatures, dragons. There's just something abou' them.'

'Well … this must be your lucky day. I happened to pick up a dragon's egg only the other week, and haven't had an opportunity to find a suitable owner.'

'A real dragon's egg?' said Hagrid in a hushed voice. 'Can I see it?'

'I'd rather it wasn't seen,' said the stranger, casting a wary glance around the pub, which was gradually emptying. 'Perhaps we could, say, play a game of cards, and the winner gets to keep it?'

Hagrid had never heard such a wonderful suggestion. The stranger collected a pack of cards from another table, as well as a double Firewhiskey for Hagrid from the bar, and they played.

'It's a Norwegian Ridgeback, I believe,' said Quirrell, re-shuffling the pack having intentionally lost his fourth consecutive round. 'The Scandinavian laws on dragon-breeding aren't as strict as ours. I'd rather you kept this between you and me. Are you sure you think you could handle it?'

Hagrid snorted with amusement. The mead and Firewhiskey were taking its toll; he was slow in the mind, and when he spoke his voice was slurred.

'I've dealt with a three-headed dog, sir, a dragon should be no problem.'

'A three-headed dog?' repeated the stranger – and though Hagrid could not see his face, there was palpable excitement in the man's voice. 'Now that's something I've never heard of. That sounds terrifying. How do you look after a creature like that?'

'He's a big softie really,' Hagrid told him. 'He gets excited every now and then, bless, but he's easy enough to calm down – jus' play him a bit o' music and he falls asleep jus' like tha'.'

'Is that so,' said Quirrell, a distinct note of triumph in his voice, which Hagrid hardly noticed: he had just won the final round of cards and downed the rest of his drink in his victory. Quirrell applauded him graciously.

'Well played, my friend,' he said. 'Well, here you go, as promised …'

Hagrid watched with child-like excitement as the man carefully withdrew something from inside his cloak. A moment later, he presented a huge, jet-black egg, which Hagrid took in his enormous hands.

'Look at tha',' muttered Hagrid, as though he were holding a new-born baby. 'Beau'iful … Thank you, sir.'

'You won it, fair and square. I'm glad to have found someone who can make use of it. You've been most helpful tonight,' said Quirrell, smiling beneath his hood.


End file.
